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POPULAR  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE 


HOME   STUDY  CIRCLE 

EDITED   BY 

SEYMOUR  EATON 


LITERATURE 

I.  ROBERT  BURNS 

II.  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

III.  LORD   BYRON 


From  The  Chicago  Record 


New  York 

The  Doubleday  &  McClure  Co. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  1898,  1899,  BY  THE  CHICAGO  RECORD. 
COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY  VICTOR  F.  LAWSON. 


C.  J.  PETERS  &  SON,   TYPOGRAPHERS, 
BOSTON. 


INTRODUCTORY  STUDY. 


IN  the  study  of  all  human  effort  it  is  the  personal 
element  that  is  the  most  interesting.  It  is  also  the 
most  fructifying.  This  is  the  justification  of  biography. 
This  is  the  reason  why,  in  the  study  of  literature  for 
example,  so  much  of  the  work  is  rightfully  the  study  of 
the  lives  and  characters  of  authors. 

We  recognize  the  truth  of  the  principle  instinctively. 
We  feel  readily  enough  that  we  are  not  so  much  con- 
cerned in  knowing  the  characteristics  of  a  great  man's 
greatness,  the  limitations  of  it,  the  history  of  it,  as  we 
are  in  knowing  what  sort  of  man  it  was  who  was  great. 
We  want  to  know  how  the  qualities  to  which  his  great- 
ness was  due  comported  with  the  other  qualities  that  he 
had.  In  plain  words,  we  want  to  see  how  nearly  the 
individual  characteristics  of  a  great  man  are  like  the 
characteristics  of  common  humanity. 

It  is  the  universal  instinct  of  self -betterment  that 
prompts  this  feeling.  We  know  well  that  the  inspira- 
tion of  a  great  example  is  possible  only  when  it  seems 
possible.  That  it  may  seem  possible  it  must  proceed 
from  a  life  not  wholly  unlike  our  own.  The  example  of 
a  great  life  would  be  valueless  to  us  if  that  life  were  so 
unlike  our  own  as  to  have  nothing  in  common  with  it. 

Burns,  Scott,  and  Byron  were  all  great  men ;  and  in 

vii 

M41925 


Vlll  INTRODUCTORY  STUDY. 

the  lives  of  every  one  of  the  three  there  is  an  inspiration 
for  any  one  that  seeks  it.  But  the  inspiration  to  be 
derived  from  the  life  of  Burns  is  far  greater  than  that 
to  be  derived  from  the  lives  of  the  other  two.  Why  ? 
Because  we  instinctively  recognize  in  Burns  a  great 
human  heart,  that  is  to  say,  a  heart  throbbing  in  com- 
plete unison  with  the  great  common  heart  of  humanity. 
"  He  was  touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  infirmities," 
—  could  this  be  said  of  any  human  being  if  not  of  Burns  ? 

Who  can  read  his  life  without  tears  —  tears  of  sym- 
pathy and  sorrow  welling  up  at  almost  every  turn  in  the 
story  ?  Intrinsically  so  noble,  and  yet  by  the  stress  of 
his  environment,  and  by  mistakes  of  judgment  and  of 
conduct,  condemned  to  a  life  that  had  so  much  that  was 
ignoble  in  it.  How  typical  of  the  life  so  many  have 
to  live ! 

It  was  the  fashion,  for  some  fifty  years  or  more,  for 
the  world  strongly  to  condemn  Burns.  But  that  fashion 
has  passed  away.  The  world  has  forgiven  him.  Not  a 
fault  or  a  failing  but  has  been  forgiven  to  him  richly. 
And  this  not  by  reason  of  any  newly  developed  loose- 
ness of  judgment  or  newly  developed  laxity  of  principle  ; 
but  because  the  world  has  recognized  in  him  a  heart 
that,  had  years  been  granted  him,  would  have  turned 
out  all  right :  — 

"  Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 
Will  whyles  do  main" 

Scott  was  born  under  a  brighter  star.  Inherited  ten- 
dencies, parental  influences,  education,  social  advantages, 
character,  disposition,  mental  endowment,  the  circum- 
stances of  his  environment  and  his  existence  generally, 


INTRODUCTORY  STUDY.  ix 

all  led  up  to  the  realization  of  a  great  success.  In 
scarcely  any  other  than  one  thing,  in  all  his  life,  did 
Scott  fail  to  make  the  most  of  himself  and  his  chances. 
But  had  not  that  one  mistake  been  made,  had  not 
Scott  entangled  himself  in  the  business  of  printing  and 
publishing,  and  so  in  the  end  brought  ruin  upon  his  fine 
fabric  of  realized  hopes  and  dreams,  who  will  say  that 
his  life  would  have  had  the  same  interest  for  posterity, 
or  that  his  fame  would  have  endured  so  perpetually  re- 
splendent in  all  its  pristine  wonder  of  brilliancy  and 
power  ?  Even  without  our  knowing  it,  our  judgment  of 
the  poet  and  the  romancist  is  influenced  by  our  appre- 
ciation of  the  character  of  the  man  in  whom  the  poet 
and  the  romancist  were  existent.  We  cannot  even  think 
of  Scott  without  thinking  of  the  heroic  fortitude  of  him 
who  at  fifty-five  years  of  age  sat  down  to  write  off  by 
the  earnings  of  his  pen  a  debt  of  $750,000 ! 

For  Scott  we  have  nothing  but  admiration  and  won- 
der ;  but  for  Byron,  as  for  Burns,  there  must  always  be 
pity.  The  pity,  however,  proceeds  not  from  so  deep 
or  so  general  a  spring.  Every  heart  finds  in  Burns  an 
answering  throb  of  tenderness  and  brotherhood  :  — 


"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 

And  never  brought  to  min'? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne  ?  " 


For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure  and  a'  that, 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp  — 
The  man  !s  the  gowd  for  a1  that." 


X  INTRODUCTORY  STUDY. 

But  Byron's  freedom-loving  spirit  is  frequently  a  thing 
of  books  and  culture,  and  his  sentiment  the  utterance  of 
a  feeling  wholly  personal  to  himself  without  even  the 
suggestion  of  a  general  application :  — 

"  Arouse  ye  Goths  and  glut  your  ire." 

"  A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
Dash  down  your  cup  of  Samian  wine." 

"  Teach  me  —  too  early  taught  by  thee ! 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven  : 
On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me 
It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven." 

Besides,  there  was  a  note  of  unreality  in  Byron.  His 
griefs,  his  sorrows,  his  despairs,  were  melodramatic.  His 
loving  was  hyperbolical  and  effusive.  Even  his  passion- 
ate utterances  for  freedom  lacked  "  the  one  thing  need- 
ful," the  air  of  conviction.  It  was  only  in  his  satire - 
his  on-rushing,  over-rushing,  everywhere-pervading  floods 
of  invective  and  denunciation,  glowing  with  fiery  wit 
and  sarcasm  as  waves  of  the  sea  are  at  times  lit  up  by 
sunlight  —  that  Byron  appeared  in  his  own  true,  unap- 
proachable self.  Yet  when  he  was  in  this  mood,  his 
mind  was  not  always  at  its  sanest.  But  it  was  always 
at  its  mightiest. 

But  despite  the  unreality  and  the  putting  forward  of 
himself  as  an  object  of  commiseration,  and  the  bookish- 
ness  of  his  rhapsodies  on  liberty,  freedom,  etc.,  there 
was  nevertheless  much  in  Byron  that  was  genuinely  true 
and  honest ;  much,  too,  that,  if  considered  well,  still 
merits  our  sympathy.  The  stars  ran  evil  in  their  courses 
the  day  of  his  nativity.  That  he  was  not  a  far  worse 


INTRODUCTORY  STUDY.  XI 

man  than  he  was  is  no  fault  of  those  who  were  respon- 
sible for  his  birth  and  being.  If  we  see  things  in  his 
character  and  conduct  that  we  would  condemn,  we  must 
remember  that,  had  not  nature  been  resisted  by  genius, 
the  probabilities  all  are  that  Byron's  life  would  have 
been  wholly  trivial  and  self-indulgent. 

The  truth  remains,  then,  that  to  understand  Byron 
aright,  precisely  as  to  understand  Burns  aright,  it  is 
necessary  to  understand  the  man's  life,  the  man's  inher- 
ited disposition  and  tendencies,  the  man's  character  and 
personality,  and  the  circumstances  under  which  he  lived 
his  life.  Almost  every  poem  that  Byron  wrote  was  a 
revelation  of  personal  feeling  or  experience.  Knowing 
this,  and  knowing,  too,  how  much  he  had  to  bear  that 
was  no  burden  of  his  own  making,  we  can  but  read  him 
with  our  hearts  open  to  his  moods,  matching  our  own 
moods  to  his  as  best  we  may. 

With  Scott  how  all  this  is  different !  Scott  is  almost 
as  free  from  personal  moods  as  Shakespeare.  Whether 
he  be  in  prose  or  verse,  at  every  turn  we  take  we  feel 
that  we  are  in  the  charge  of  sanity  and  discretion.  We 
may 'resign  our  individual  judgments  if  we  will,  for  we 
may  be  sure  we  shall  never  be  called  upon  to  give  ear  to 
thoughts  other  than  the  noblest  and  the  purest. 

It  is  a  natural  and  not  altogether  profitless  question 
to  enquire :  Of  the  three,  Burns,  Scott,  and  Byron, 
which  is  the  greatest  ?  Scott  and  Byron  have  certainly 
filled  the  greater  places  in  literary  history.  Scott,  the 
founder  of  the  modern  historical  romance,  the  unap- 
proachable reproducer  of  historical  place,  time,  and 


Xll  INTRODUCTORY  STUDY. 

event,  the  creator  of  characters  as  many  and  as  real  as 
those  Shakespeare  ushered  into  the  world,  is  without 
doubt  one  of  the  very  greatest  names  in  literary  history. 

Byron's  name  is  not  nearly  so  great,  yet,  even  so,  his 
greatness  is  considerable.  He  will  remain  a  star  of  the 
first  magnitude  to  all  time.  As  a  poet  he  far  surpassed 
Scott,  not  merely  in  immediate  popularity,  but  also  in 
range  of  theme  and  variety  of  composition.  He  will 
never  again  be  so  popular  as  he  once  was,  but  time 
cannot  wither  the  laurels  that  are  rightfully  his  due  for 
some  of  his  descriptive  and  reflective  pieces,  and  espe- 
cially for  his  satire.  Satire  is  not  a  high  kind  of  poetry  ; 
but  such  as  it  is,  in  certain  qualities  of  it  Byron  is 
supreme. 

Poor  Burns'  achievement  was  smaller,  much  smaller, 
than  either  Scott's  or  Byron's,  even  if  Scott's  prose 
work  be  dropped  out  of  account.  A  few  poetical  epis- 
tles, a  few  satires,  a  few  occasional  pieces,  and  his  songs 

—  that   was  all.     His  was  no  lettered  ease,  or  life  of 
professional  dignity  and  comfort.     Working  on  his  farm 

—  at  the  plough's  tail,  or  hedging,  ditching,  scything, 
flailing  ;  or  toiling  at  his  excise  work  —  journeying  four 
hundred  miles  on  horseback  fortnightly  —  what  little  he 
conceived  could  come  to  him  only  in  flashes  of  inspi- 
ration, to  be  afterwards   put  down  by  pen  and  ink  in 
snatches  of  time  stolen  from  needful  rest.     But  as  to 
that  little  —  what    shall  we    say  of  it  ?     What   can  we 
say  of  it,  except  that  much  of  it  is  the  human  intellect's 
choicest  mintage  ? 

A  thousand  years  from  now,  amid  the  stress  of  all 
the  interests  that  will  occupy  the  world's  attention  at 
that  date,  who  will  be  able  to  read  "  Childe  Harold,"  or 


INTRODUCTORY  STUDY.  xili 

even  "  Don  Juan  "  ?  A  thousand  years  from  now,  who, 
indeed,  will  ever  find  time  to  read  "  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake  "  or  "  Ivanhoe  "  ;  or  even  "  Kenilworth  "  or  "  Old 
Mortality  ' '  ?  And  yet  may  we  not  safely  say  that  such 
songs  as  "  Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever,"  or  "  O  wert 
thou  in  the  cauld  blast,"  or  "Thou  lingering  star  with 
lessening  ray,"  or  "  Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams 
around,"  or  "  Of  a'  the  airts  the  winds  can  blaw,"  will 
be  read  and  sung  and  treasured  in  memory's  storehouse 
as  the  richest  of  her  treasures,  as  long  as  our  present 
civilization  endures  ?  And  why  say  this  of  these  songs 
of  Burns  rather  than  of  Byron's  satires  or  of  Scott's 
great  romances  ?  Because  Burns'  songs  deal  simply 
and  directly,  yet  beautifully  and  ennoblingly,  with  that 
primary  passion  of  the  human  heart  —  the  love  of  man 
for  woman,  the  love  of  woman  for  man.  Until  love 
itself  shall  die,  and  be  cast  out,  these  songs  of  love  will 
endure.  And  we  have  no  warrant  for  thinking  that  love 
in  heart  of  man  or  woman  will  ever  grow  less  strong  or 
less  pure  than  it  is  to-day. 

JOHN  EBENEZER  BRYANT. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  STUDY vii 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY 3 

SELECTED  CRITICAL  STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES         .        .  33 

THE  HOME  OF  ROBERT  BURNS       ......  59 

READINGS  FROM  BURNS. 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 74. 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 79 

MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN 81 

THE  BANKS  o'  DOON 86 

TAM  o'  SHANTER 86 

STUDENTS'  NOTES  AND  QUERIES 96 

STUDY  OUTLINE  FOR  CLUBS  AND  CIRCLES      ....  103 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY 109 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  —  A  TEN-MINUTE  TALK  ....  128 

SCOTT'S  POETRY 132 

ABBOTSFORD  :  SCOTT'S  HOME 140 

CRITICAL  STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES          ....  149 

SOME  QUERIES  AND  ANSWERS 170 

READINGS  FROM  SCOTT. 

SUNSET  IN  A  STORM 173 

DISCOVERY  OF  THE  TOMB  OF  ROBERT  THE  BRUCE    .        .  174 

THE  PRAYER  OF  Louis  THE  ELEVENTH      .        .        .        .  177 

BEFORE  THE  READING  OF  THE  WILL          .        .        .        .  179 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FUNERAL 187 

THE  TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  FERGUS  MAC-IVOR  .        .  196 

SCOTT'S  REFLECTIONS  ON  HIS  OWN  LIFE    .        .        .        .  203 

ADDITIONAL  READINGS 209 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

LORD  BYRON.  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY 215 

CRITICAL  STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES          ....  243 
READINGS  FROM  BYRON. 

MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART 263 

ON  PARTING 264 

FARE  THEE  WELL 264 

EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA 266 

WATERLOO 270 

VENICE 272 

ROME .  274 

THE  DYING  GLADIATOR 275 

THE  COLISEUM  —  THE  PANTHEON 276 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  OCEAN 277 

FIRST  LOVE 279 

DONNA  JULIA'S  LETTER 280 

HAIDEE  DISCOVERING  JUAN 282 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 284 

STUDENTS'  NOTES  AND  QUERIES 288 

STUDY  OUTLINE  FOR  CLUBS  AND  CIRCLES      ....  293 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

PORTRAIT  OF  BURNS Frontispiece 

BURNS'  COTTAGE,  ALLOWAY 4 

ROOM  IN  WHICH  BURNS  WAS  BORN 5 

TAM  o'  SHANTER  INN,  AYR 7 

INTERIOR  OF  THE  BURNS  COTTAGE 7 

ROBERT  BURNS n 

MRS.  BURNS  (JEAN  ARMOUR) 17 

MRS.  DUNLOP 23 

HOUSE  IN  WHICH  BURNS  DIED,  DUMFRIES        ....  28 

FLAXMAN'S  STATUE  OF  BURNS 35 

FACSIMILE  OF  A  POEM  BY  BURNS 41 

MAUSOLEUM  OF  BURNS                51 

BURNS'  MONUMENT,  ALLOWAY 61 

THE  TWA  BRIGS  o'  AYR 61 

ALLOWAY  KIRK  AND  BURIAL  PLACE  OF  THE  BURNS  FAMILY    .  63 

THE  AULD  BRIG  o'  DOON 64 

BURNS'  MONUMENT,  AYR 65 

POOSIE  NANSIE'S  INN,  MAUCHLINE  STATION      ....  69 

BURNS'  MONUMENT,  EDINBURGH 71 

STATUE  OF  BURNS,  DUMFRIES 83 

"YE  BANKS  AND  BRAES  o'  BONNIE  DOON"      ....  87 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 108 

WALTER  SCOTT  IN  1777 in 

LADY  SCOTT 115 

ABBOTSFORD,  FROM  THE  SOUTHEAST 121 

THE  ENTRANCE  HALL,  ABBOTSFORD 121 

MELROSE  ABBEY,  FROM  THE  SOUTHEAST 133 

THE  SILVER  STRAND,  LOCH  KATRINE 134 


XV111  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

THE  TROSACHS 135 

ROSLIN'S  GLEN   . I36 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 137 

MAP  OF  THE  COUNTRY  ABOUT  EDINBURGH        .       .        .       .  140 

ABBOTSFORD:  THE  GARDEN  FRONT 142 

THE  DRAWING-ROOM  AT  ABBOTSFORD 143 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  ARMORY 143 

THE  LIBRARY  AT  ABBOTSFORD 146 

LOCH  KATRINE,  ELLEN'S  ISLE 156 

THE  CHANTREY  BUST  OF  SCOTT 166 

DRYBURGH  ABBEY,  FROM  THE  CLOISTER  COURT         .        .        .  167 

SCOTT'S  TOMB  AT  DRYBURGH  ABBEY 167 

DRYBURGH  ABBEY,  FROM  THE  EAST  .        .        .        .        .        .  176 

SCOTT'S  MONUMENT  AT  EDINBURGH 180 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 188 

PORTRAIT  OF  BYRON 214 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  THE  ANCESTRAL  HOME  OF  LORD  BYRON    .  216 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  FROM  THE  FRONT 219 

LORD  BYRON'S  BEDROOM,  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY    ....  223 

THE  DRAWING-ROOM,  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 227 

LADY  BYRON 230 

LORD  BYRON 233 

ARMS  OF  THE  BYRON  FAMILY 240 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  OF  LORD  BYRON      ....  247 

THE  VILLA  DIODATI 252 

FRANCISCAN  CONVENT,  ATHENS 254 

THE  MAID  OF  ATHENS 257 

LORD  BYRON'S  TOMB .  260 


CONTRIBUTORS  TO  THE 

HOME  STUDY  CIRCLE 
POPULAR  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE 


REV.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  D.D. 
HAMILTON  W.  MABIE. 

COL.  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON^_ 
EDWARD  DOWDEN,  Litt.D.,  D.C.L.,  LL.D. 
WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  Litt.D. 
HIRAM  CORSON,  LL.D. 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  LL.D. 

JOHN  EBENEZER  BRYANT,  M.A. 


THEODORE  W.  HUNT,  Ph.D. 
ALBERT  S.  COOK,  Ph.D.,  LL.D.      1 

ISAAC  N.  DEMMON,  A.M.,  LL.D. 
OSCAR  LOVELL  TRIGGS,  Ph.D. 
LEWIS  E.  GATES,  A.M. 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN,  LL.D. 

JOHN  FRANKLIN  GENUNG,  LL.D. 
JULIUS  EMIL  OLSON,  B.L. 

JOSEPH  VILLIERS  DENNEY,  A.M. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


ROBERT    BURNS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY. 


BURNS  is  the  world's  greatest  lyric  poet.  He  is  also 
the  national  poet  of  Scotland,  —  the  poet  revered  and 
loved  by  Scotsmen  the  wide  world  over.  The  genius  of 
Burns  for  song  writing  was  of  the  very  highest  order. 
For  the  writing  of  poetry  of  every  sort  it  was  of  the 
highest  order  also,  only,  unfortunately,  he  gave  to  the 
world  few  proofs  of  his  genius  other  than  in  songs. 
The  story  of  his  life  is  inexpressibly  sad.  The  great 
powers  with  which  he  was  endowed  were  only  partially 
employed.  Oftentimes,  too,  they  were  employed  on 
themes  unworthy  of  them.  Oppressed  with  care  and 
anxiety,  defeated  of  hope,  broken  in  health,  broken  also 
in  courage  and  in  fortitude  to  resist  evil,  he  came  to  an 
untimely  end ;  and  the  last  years  of  his  life,  years  in 
the  very  prime  of  manhood,  that  should  have  been  his 
happiest  years  and  fruitful  of  the  noblest  accomplish- 
ment, were  the  saddest  years  of  all,  and  fruitful  of  little 
but  disappointment  and  sorrow. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  in  a  cottage  (still  standing) 
near  "  Alloway's  haunted  kirk,"  and  the  "  Auld  Brig  o' 
Doon,"  about  two  miles  from  the  town  of  Ayr,  on  Jan- 

3 


LITERA  TURE. 


uary  25,  1759.  His  father,  a  man  of  Scotland's  noblest 
type,  had  come  from  Kincardineshire,  and  was  a  gar- 
dener, and  at  the  time  of  the  poet's  birth  was  making  a 
livelihood  by  cultivating  a  small  nursery  garden.  His 


BURNS'  COTTAGE,  ALLOWAY. 


mother,  whom  the  poet  much  resembled  both  in  features 
and  in  address,  and  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  was  a 
woman  also  of  the  noblest  type,  who  possessed  an 
"inexhaustible  store  of  ballads  and  traditionary  tales," 
which  she  made  the  delightful  entertainment  of  her 
gifted  son  during  all  his  years  of  childhood  and  youth. 
When  Burns  was  seven  years  old  his  father  gave  up 
his  nursery  garden,  and  took  a  farm  two  miles  from  the 
"  Brig  o'  Doon,"  called  Mount  Oliphant.  At  Mount 


ROBERT  BURNS.  5 

Oliphant  the  family  remained  for  eleven  years,  or  until 
the  poet  was  in  his  eighteenth  year.  The  Mount  Oli- 
phant farm,  however,  proved  to  be  a  very  bottomless 
pit  to  the  industry  of  its  occupants.  Not  the  consci- 
entious and  zealous  labors  of  the  father,  nor  the  over- 
worked strength  of  the  young  poet  and  his  brother,  nor 


ROOM  IN  WHICH  BURNS  WAS  BORN. 

the  frugal,  self-denying  endeavors  of  the  mother,  were  of 
any  avail  in  their  long-continued  struggle  with  its  barren- 
ness. Burns  afterward  spoke  of  his  toils  at  Mount  Oli- 
phant as  "the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley  slave."  But, 
worse,  his  constitution  became  irretrievably  impaired  in 
efforts  as  a  lad  to  do  the  work  of  a  man.  The  father, 
too,  in  his  hopeless  contest  with  his  untoward  lot,  wore 
out  his  strength,  and  broke  his  health,  In  1/77,  how- 


6  LITER  A  TURE. 

ever,  the  Mount  Oliphant  lease  ran  out,  and  the  family 
removed  to  Lochlea,  a  farm  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
river  Ayr,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton.  Here  they  re- 
mained for  seven  years,  or  until  the  poet  was  in  his 
twenty-fifth  year.  Although  the  farm  at  Lochlea  was 
better  than  the  one  at  Mount  Oliphant,  the  hardships 
and  privations  of  the  previous  eleven  years  of  distress 
had  left  an  irremediable  effect  upon  the  financial  condi- 
tion of  the  family.  So  that  when  the  father  died  in 
February,  1784,  the  two  brothers  could  with  difficulty 
save  enough  from  the  wreck  of  his  belongings  to  stock  a 
new  farm.  However,  they  did  the  best  they  could ;  and 
in  March  (1784)  the  family  moved  to  Mossgiel,  a  farm  in 
the  parish  of  Mauchline,  about  half  a  mile  from  Mauch- 
line  village  on  the  river  Ayr.  Mossgiel  was  the  home  of 
Burns  from  his  twenty-fifth  year  until  his  twenty-ninth, 
—  that  is,  until  he  set  up  a  home  for  himself  at  Ellisland. 
It  was  at  Mossgiel  that  Burns  spent  the  happiest  days  of 
his  life,  if  happy  days  he  may  have  had.  It  was  there 
that  he  was  first  recognized  as  a  poet.  It  was  there  that 
his  genius  blossomed  into  its  full  flower.  It  was  there 
that  he  wrote  many  of  those  poems  for  which  he  is  held 
dearest  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  and  for  which 
his  name  will  be  longest  cherished  by  lovers  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  true  in  every  land.  It  was  there  that  he  pre- 
pared his  first  volume  of  poems  for  printing,  and  it  was 
from  there  that  he  went  to  Edinburgh  to  be  received 
with  acclaim  as  Scotland's  wondrous  "poet  ploughman." 
And  it  was  there  he  soon  returned  again,  convinced  that 
the  applause  of  the  world  can  be  of  little  avail  in  a 
struggle  with  fate  and  the  consequences  of  one's  own 
misdoing.  It  was  there,  too,  that  he  met  and  wooed  his 


THE  TAM  O'SHANTER  INN,  AYR. 


INTERIOR  OF  THE  BURNS  COTTAGE. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  g 

"Jean,"  of  "the  belles  of  Mauchline "  "the  jewel  o' 
them  a'  "  ;  and  it  was  from  there  (in  1788)  that  he 
brought  her  to  the  home  he  had  proudly  made  for  her 
at  Ellisland. 

Burns  had  the  inestimable  blessing  of  "being  born  into 
a  family  where  integrity,  honor,  sobriety,  and  every  other 
wholesome  virtue  had  full  sway.  *  And  not  only  were  his 
parents  virtuous  —  they  were  religious.  The  fear  of 
God  was  a  real  and  awful  thing  to  them,  and  in  the  fear 
of  God  they  endeavored  to  bring  up  their  children.  In 
that  inimitable  picture  which  the  poet  has  drawn  of 
rural  Scottish  home-life,  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night," 
every  line  is  an  image  of  the  life  he  had  lived  in  his 
humble  home :  — 

"  The  cheerfu1  supper  done,  wi1  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle *  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi1  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'  bible,  ance 2  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets 3  wearing  thin  and  bare : 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide 
He  wales  *  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  '  Let  us  worship  God! '  he  says,  with  solemn  air." 

And  despite  toil  and  poverty,  and  grievous  disappoint- 
ment of  their  hopes,  father,  mother,  brothers,  and  sisters 
lived  the  God-fearing  lives  which  these  lines  betoken,  to 
the  end.  With  Robert  Burns  it  was  different.  The 
soul  of  honor  in  all  matters  relating  to  business,  warm- 
hearted and  true-hearted  as  a  friend,  dutiful  and  tender 
as  a  son  and  a  brother,  tender  and  dutiful,  too,  in  all  the 
obligations  of  husband  and  father,  in  two  relations  only 

1  Fireside.        2  Once.        8  Gray  side-locks.        4  Chooses. 


10  LITERATURE. 

in  life  did  he  fail  of  that  high  standard  which  none  knew 
better  than  he  how  to  set  forth  and  to  make  plain.  In 
the  pure  affection  of  lover  and  maiden  Burns  often 
found  a  theme  for  his  finest  verse :  — 

"  O  happy  love !  —  where  love  like  this  is  found  !  — 

O  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I  've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
'  If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale.' " 

And  in  the  serenity  of  mind  and  independence  of 
feeling  that  come  from  an  unclouded  conscience  —  not 
in  worldly  success,  or  honors,  or  in  the  comfort  and 
ease  that  wealth  can  bring  —  Burns  rightly  placed  his 
ideal  of  human  happiness  :  — 

"  It 's  no'  in  titles  or  in  rank, 

It 's  no'  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
It's  no'  in  makin'  muckle  mair,1 
It's  no'  in  books,  it 's  no'  in  lear,2 

To  make  us  truly  blest ; 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 

But  never  can  be  blest : 
Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  aye's  the  part  aye 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang." 

1  Much  more.        2  Learning. 


RORERT  BURNS. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  13 

But,  alas,  his  own  affections,  tender  and  supremely 
loving  though  they  were,  often  proved  to  be  not  only  his 
own  but  others'  undoing.  The  pathetic  regret  of  "  that 
exquisitely  affecting  stanza,"  which,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
has  said,  "  contains  the  essence  of  a  thousand  love- 
tales,"  had  unfortunately  only  too  frequent  occasion  to 
be  uttered  by  him  :  - 

"  Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

And  his  clear  insight  led  him  to  depict  his  own  weak- 
nesses of  either  sort  in  a  "  confession  "  (a  supposed  epi- 
taph upon  himself),  which  Wordsworth  with  pathetic 
sympathy  has  declared  to  be  "  at  once  devout,  poetical, 
and  human,"  although  unfortunately  "a  history  in  the 
shape  of  a  prophecy,"  "a  foreboding  that  was  to  be  real- 
ized," "a  record  that  has  proved  to  be  authentic  "  :  — 

"  Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 
Here  pause  —  and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

"  The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame ; 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low 
And  stain'd  his  name." 

Among  the  blessings  which  Burns  owed  to  the  char- 
acter of  his  father  was  his  education.  This  education  in 


14  LITERATURE. 

quantity  was  not  much,  but  in  quality  it  was  inestimable. 
The  grinding  poverty  which  Mount  Oliphant's  barren- 
ness imposed  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  elder  Burns,  pre- 
cluded his  securing  for  his  children  even  the  advantage 
of  the  instruction  which  a  Scottish  public  school  at  that 
time  afforded,  cheaply  obtained  though  this  could  be. 
But  the  zealous  desire  of  this  notable  father  to  have  his 
children  educated  was  not  to  be  frustrated  by  poverty  or 
any  other  ill  fortune.  A  teacher  was  secured,  as  poor 
perhaps  as  his  pupils,  who  lived  with  the  family,  and 
instructed  the  young  poet  and  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
while  the  father  also,  it  is  said,  supplemented  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  teacher  with  his  own  help.  It  is  doubtful  if 
in  any  other  home,  even  in  Scotland,  such  an  example  of 
devotion  to  learning  could  have  been  presented.  This 
teacher  proved  to  be  to  the  poet  a  veritable  fount  of 
inspiration  ;  and  under  his  friendly  guidance,  even  after 
he  ceased  to  be  his  pupil,  Burns  pursued  a  course  of 
reading  very  different  from  that  which  most  lads  in  his 
circumstances  would  have  thought  of  following.  His 
brother  Gilbert  says  of  him,  that  "  no  book  was  so  volu- 
minous as  to  slacken  his  energies."  Even  before  he  had 
left  Mount  Oliphant  he  was  familiar  with  Shakespeare, 
Pope,  and  Addison.  But  his  reading  covered  a  far  wider 
range  than  even  these  great  authors,  and  included  works 
in  theology,  philosophy,  and  history.  When  afterward 
he  went  to  Edinburgh,  though  still  a  young  man,  the 
professors  and  litterateurs  of  that  academic  city  were 
"  astonished  at  his  doctrine  "  ;  for  his  range  of  informa- 
tion, his  insight  into  questions  of  political  economy  and 
metaphysics,  the  vigor  and  purity  of  his  language,  and 
the  vigor  and  precision  of  his  thought  seemed  to  them 


ROBERT  BURNS.  15 

extraordinary.  Burns  continued  to  be  a  reader  and  a 
student  even  to  the  end  ;  and  though  never  in  all  his  life 
was  he  other  than  very  poor,  and  though  only  for  a  few 
short  months  had  he  money  which  he  could  freely  spend, 
yet  when  he  died  it  was  found  that  his  library  was  such 
as  only  a  man  of  taste  and  of  culture,  and  with  a  thirst 
for  knowledge,  would  have  been  likely  to  get  together ; 
for  it  comprised  the  cream  of  what  was  then  available 
in  poetry,  in  the  drama,  in  elegant  literature,  in  works  of 
fiction,  in  history,  in  general  science,  and  in  theology. 
It  is  doubtful  if  even  in  the  politest  circles  of  Edin- 
burgh, Glasgow,  or  Aberdeen,  there  were  any  libraries 
richer  in  what  was  really  best  in  the  world's  literature 
than  that  of  the  so-called  ploughman  Burns. 

Burns'  earliest,  most  constant,  and  most  lasting  liter- 
ary passion  was  song-craft.  He  was  only,  as  he  himself 
has  told  us,  in  his  "  fifteenth  autumn,"  when  he  com- 
posed his  first  poem  ;  and  this,  like  his  very  last  poem, 
and  like  almost  all  of  his  best  poems,  was  a  song  —  a 
love-song.  Burns  himself  thought  it  "  a  silly  perform- 
ance," but,  nevertheless,  it  had  in  it  that  direct  simplic- 
ity of  expression  which  is  the  great  charm  of  all  his 
best  work :  — 

"  As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen 
And  mony  full  as  braw  ; l 
But  for  a  modest,  gracefu'  mien, 
The  like  I  never  saw. 

"  She  dresses  aye 2  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Baith  decent  and  genteel ; 
And  then  there  's  something  in  her  gait 
Gars 3  ony  dress  look  weel." 4 

l  Well  dressed.  2  Always.  *  Makes.  *Well. 


1 6  LITERA  TURK. 

Even  at  the  early  age  at  which  this  poem  was  written, 
Burns'  principal  interest  lay  in  the  study  of  the  songs 
and  song-legends  of  his  native  land ;  and  his  fondest 
wish  was  to  be  able  to  add  something  to  the  lustre  of  his 
country's  poetic  fame  :  — 

"  E'en  then  a  wish  —  I  mind  its  power  — 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least." 

And  this,  through  good  repute  and  evil  repute,  through 
good  fortune  and  ill  fortune,  was  his  chief  desire  all  his 
life  long.  To  achieve  this  desire  he  brought  to  bear  both 
genius  and  industry.  He  was  rarely  idle,  except  in  cir- 
cumstances when  others  would  have  been  idle  also. 

"  Leeze  me  on  rhyme  ; l  it 's  aye  a  treasure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie  ! 2 
Tho'  rough  and  raploch  3  be  her  measure, 

She  's  seldom  lazy." 

And  when  in  later  years  he  found  that  his  songs  were 
welcomed  by  his  countrymen  as  worthy  to  be  ranked 
with  any  of  the  nation's  best,  he  would  not,  although  he 
needed  money  sadly,  accept  a  penny  of  pay  for  any  that 
he  could  contribute  to  the  nation's  stock  ;  and  gave  utter- 
ance at  once  to  his  independence  and  his  patriotism  in 
words  like  these  :  - 

1  Hurrah  for  poetry.  2Girl.  8  Coarse. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


*'  I  shall  enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all  the  small  portion 
of  abilities  that  I  have,  strained  to  their  utmost  exertion  by  the 
impulse  of  enthusiasm.  ...  As  to  remuneration  you  may  think 
my  songs  either  above  or  below  price  ;  for  they  shall  be  absolutely 
one  or  the  other.  In  the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I  embark 
in  your  undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire,  etc.,  would 
be  downright  prostitution  of  soul." 

Burns'  poverty-burdened  and  irregular  life,  brightened 
though  it  had  been  by  genius,  wit,  humor,  and  local 
fame,  had  ended,  in 
1786,  when  he  was 
entering  upon  his 
twenty-eighth  year, 
in  utter  discontent 
with  himself,  the 
gloomiest  sort  of  de- 
spondency, and  a  de- 
termination to  leave 
his  native  land  and 
find  a  new  home  and, 
if  possible,  begin  a 
new  and  better  life  on 
a  plantation  in  the 
West  Indies.  The 
father  of  his  chosen 
Jean  would  not  allow 

him  formally  to  marry  her,  and  had  himself  destroyed 
the  document  which  had  certified  to  their  secret 
contract.  He  was  every  moment  in  danger  of  being 
imprisoned  because  he  could  not  furnish  security  for  the 
upbringing  of  his  infant  children.  His  mind  was  dis- 
tracted by  other  ties,  —  of  one  of  which  the  memory, 
three  years  later,  was  the  inspiration  of  the  most  beau- 


MRS.  BURNS  (JEAN  ARMOUR ). 


1 8  LITERATURE. 

tiful   of   all   his    love  lyrics,  that    immortal    "  burst  of 
passion,"  as  Professor  Wilson  calls  it,  beginning  :  — 

"  Thou  ling'ring  star  with  lessening  ray 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  ushe^st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn  ; 
Oh,  Mary !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ?  " 

And  he  was  fast  becoming  a  prey  to  despair :  — 

• 

"  Oppressed  with  grief,  oppressed  with  care, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh  : 
Oh,  life !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I  ! 
Dim  backward  as  I  cast  my  view, 
What  sickening  scenes  appear  ! 
What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro1, 
Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 
Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom  : 
My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er 
But  with  the  closing  tomb  !  " 


So  utterly  helpless  was  Burns'  position  at  this  time 
(1786,  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-eighth  year)  that  he 
had  not  money  enough  even  to  purchase  a  steerage  pas- 
sage to  Jamaica,  whither  in  his  distress  he  had  determined 
to  flee.  Some  friends,  however,  suggested  the  publish- 
ing his  poems,  and  took  upon  themselves  the  task  of 
getting  subscriptions  for  them.  In  July  the  little  vol- 


ROBERT  BURNS.  19 

ume,  "  Poems,  Chiefly  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  by  Robert 
Burns,"  accordingly  appeared.  Though  published  in  a 
country  town  (Kilmarnock,  Ayrshire),  unheralded  by 
advertisements,  and  unnoticed  by  critics  and  reviewers, 
its  fame  soon  spread  throughout  all  the  Scottish  low- 
lands. Equally  by  learned  and  unlearned,  by  gentry 
and  by  people,  was  its  author  applauded  as  the  bard  of 
Scotland.  With  money  obtained  from  the  sale  of  the 
book  the  passage  for  Jamaica  was  secured  and  paid  for, 
but  the  voyage  was  never  undertaken.  A  change  had 
come  in  the  fortunes  of  the  "  Ayrshire  Ploughman  "  (the 
name  by  which  he  was  fondly  called),  both  sudden  and 
momentous.  The  literati  of  the  nation  sought  him  out. 
Great  people  of  every  degree  evinced  their  interest  in 
him,  and  honored  him  with  their  correspondence.  Hope 
sprang  up  once  more  in  his  breast.  With  encourage- 
ment pouring  in  upon  him  from  every  quarter,  he  went 
to  Edinburgh  (November,  1786),  in  the  thought  that 
perchance  some  substantial  good  fortune  would  accrue 
to  him  there.  So  far  as  friendly  attentions  and  kind 
words  were  of  value,  he  was  not  disappointed.  He  was 
welcomed  with  the  applause  of  the  entire  capital.  He 
was  feted  and  he  was  feasted,  and  for  a  whole  winter  he 
was  the  lion  of  the  town.  His  head,  however,  was  never 
turned.  He  remained  the  same  sincere,  self-respecting 
poet  ploughman  he  had  ever  been.  He  knew,  perhaps 
only  too  well,  the  real  significance  of  his  sudden  acces- 
sion to  fame  ;  and  he  had  good  sense  enough  not  to  take 
it  too  seriously,  —  nay,  even  to  treat  it  humorously  :  - 

'*  This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 
October  twenty-third, 


2O  LITER  A  TURE. 

A  ne'er-to-be  forgotten  day, 
So  far  I  sprachled  l  up  the  brae,2 
I  dinner'd  wi'  a  lord  ! 

"  [Yes]  wi'  a  lord  !  —  stand  out  my  shin  ! 
A  lord  —  a  peer  —  an  earl's  son  ! 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ! 
And  sic  a  lord  !  —  lang  Scotch  ells  twa,3 
Our  peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a', 
As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet." 

By  April  of  the  next  year  (1787),  however,  he  had 
effected  the  principal  object  which  he  had  in  view  when 
he  first  set  out  for  Edinburgh,  —  he  had  secured  the 
publication  of  the  second  edition  of  his  poems.  This 
"  second  edition "  was  received  with  the  utmost  eclat. 
The  best  names  in  Scotland  eagerly  came  forward  to 
assist  in  the  subscription  for  it ;  and  Burns  soon  found 
himself  not  only  famous,  but  in  the  command  of  consid- 
erable money.  The  ultimate  profit  of  the  poet  because 
of  its  publication  was  not  less  than  ,£500. 

These  two  volumes  of  verse,  the  first,  or  Kilmarnock, 
edition  of  his  poems,  and  the  second,  or  "  Edinburgh," 
edition,  were  all  the  literary  work  from  which  Burns 
received  any  pecuniary  benefit.  And,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter  "  and  "  The  Wounded  Hare," 
these  two  editions  contained  almost  all  the  work  other 
than  his  songs  that  he  was  destined  to  write.  In  fact, 
the  earlier  book,  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  contained  the 
greater  part  of  those  poems  for  which,  other  than  his 
songs,  he  is  held  in  highest  esteem  by  his  countrymen, 
—  his  familiar  "  Epistles,"  "The  Holy  Fair,"  "  Scotch 
Drink,"  "Hallowe'en,"  "The  Twa  Dogs,"  "Poor 
Mailie's  Elegy,"  "The  Address  to  the  De'il,"  "To  a 

i  Clambered.  2  Slope.  *  Over  six  feet  tall. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  21 

Mountain  Daisy,"  "To  a  Mouse,"  and  that  most  revered 
of  all  his  writings,  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 
Some  poems  of  his  youth,  however,  equally  famous  with 
any  of  the  foregoing,  were  not  included  in  the  volume, 
and  were,  indeed,  not  published  in  book  form  during  the 
poet's  lifetime ;  as,  for  example,  "  The  Twa  Herds," 
"  Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  and  "  The  Jolly  Beggars,"  the 
last  of  which  is  pronounced  by  both  Carlyle  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott  the  finest  of  all  his  poems.  Most  of  these 
earlier  poems  of  Burns  were  written  in  the  garret  of  the 
house  at  Mossgiel,  when  he  was  in  his  twenty-fifth,  his 
twenty-sixth,  and  his  twenty- seventh  years ;  but  others 
were  written  previously  at  Lochlea,  and  some  even  dur- 
ing his  youthful  and  distressful  years  at  Mount  Oliphant. 
Almost  every  poem  that  Burns  wrote  was  suggested  by 
some  bit  of  personal  history,  or  some  local  event  in  which 
he  took  an  interest,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  separate 
his  poetry  from  his  biography.  Indeed,  Burns'  poems 
are  his  best  and  truest  revelation.  In  the  second,  or 
Edinburgh,  edition  of  his  poetry  some  notable  additions 
were  made,  as,  for  example,  "  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook," 
"  The  Brigs  of  Ayr,"  "  The  Ordination,"  "  The  Address 
to  the  Unco  Quid,"  and  the  "  Address  to  a  Haggis  "  ; 
but  the  new  volume  marked  no  development  in  the  poetic 
career  of  the  author ;  and  when  Burns  retired  from 
Edinburgh  to  his  farm  at  Ellisland  (1788)  his  days  as 
poet,  other  than  as  song-writer,  were  practically  over. 

Burns  unfortunately  was  a  long  time  in  getting  a  set- 
tlement with  his  Edinburgh  publishers,  and  in  order  to 
get  a  settlement  at  all  lived  a  second  winter  (1787- 
1788)  in  the  capital,  which  proved  to  be  no  blessing  to 
him.  In  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1787,  however,  he 


22  LITERATURE. 

had  taKen  two  notable  tours,  one  in  that  romantic  border 
country  afterward  so  celebrated  by  Scott  and  Words- 
worth, and  a  second  in  the  highlands.  But  neither  of 
these  tours  had  resulted  in  poetic  inspiration.  In  each, 
unfortunately,  the  poet  was  accompanied  by  those  who 
hindered  rather  than  helped  his  social  and  literary  devel- 
opment. In  fact,  all  through  life,  despite  his  many  boon 
companions,  and  despite  the  kindness  which  many  noble 
men  and  women  displayed  toward  him,  Burns  seems  to 
have  missed  true  friendship.  It  is  pitiful  to  reflect  how 
much  he  might  have  accomplished,  how  much  the  world 
would  have  gained,  had  he  found,  when  once  fortune's 
sun  beamed  kindly  upon  him,  some  true  friend,  who 
could  have  held  him  to  his  proper  course  until  he  had 
safely  passed  the  critical  years  of  transition  from  lowli- 
ness to  distinction,  from  obscurity  to  fame.  But  alas, 
that  friend  was  never  found,  and  perhaps  never  sought 
for.  Burns  pursued  his  way  alone,  even  distrusting  the 
good  intentions  of  those  who  would  and  might  have 
helped  him,  for  he  was  jealous  of  his  independence.  He 
had  some  expectation  of  receiving  a  public  appointment, 
but  the  expectation  proved  to  be  illusive.  He  then  de- 
termined to  become  a  farmer. 

Burns'  fancy  fixed  upon  "  Ellisland  "  as  his  new  home. 
This  was  a  small  place  of  a  hundred  acres  on  the  river 
Nith,  six  miles  north  of  Dumfries.  It  was  "a  poet's 
choice,"  however,  "not  a  farmer's,"  as  a  sagacious  ac- 
quaintance presently  informed  him,  and  as,  unfortunately, 
he  soon  found  out  for  himself.  But  with  what  remained 
of  his  ,£500,  after  he  had  paid  the  expenses  of  his  two 
winters  in  Edinburgh  and  of  his  two  tours,  and  after, 
also,  he  had  lent  his  brother  .£180  and  made  handsome 


MRS.  DUNLOP. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  25 

presents  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  he  stocked  his  farm, 
and  furnished  his  house  ;  and,  having  formally  completed 
his  marriage  contract,  he  brought  his  wife  to  Ellisland 
as  their  future  home  (November,  1788).  For  a  very 
short  time  Burns  was  very  happy  at  Ellisland.  Some  of 
his  finest  love  lyrics  owe  their  inspiration  to  the  feeling 
of  supreme  contentment  which  his  newly  established 
domestic  life  engendered  within  his  breast.  His  wife 
proved  to  be  a  capable,  loving  woman,  who  bore  her  part 
both  there  and  ever  afterward  with  wonderful  tact,  pa- 
tience, dignity,  and  kindness.  As  a  master  he  was 
beloved  ;  as  a  neighbor  he  was  liked  and  respected.  The 
gentry  and  the  farmers  of  the  whole  countryside  became 
his  friends.  But  his  farm  was  a  poor  one,  and  he  spent 
his  little  capital  in  making  up  the  deficiencies  of  his  in- 
come. He  worked  hard,  and  strove  earnestly  to  plan 
well  and  do  well  ;  but  with  all  his  efforts  he  could  not 
make  up  for  his  error  in  locating  upon  land  whose  natural 
beauty  and  not  its  fertility  had  been  its  chief  recommen- 
dation to  him.  Bad  harvests  also  occurred  to  add  to 
his  misfortunes.  It  became  exceedingly  difficult  for  him 
to  pay  his  way.  To  eke  out  his  income  he  applied  to  be 
appointed  excise  officer  for  his  district.  The  position 
was  granted  him  ;  but  its  duties  were  galling  to  his 
pride  and  distressing  to  all  his  finer  feelings,  and  his 
whole  soul  rebelled  against  them. . 

"  Searching  auld  wives'  barrels  — 

Och  hone !  the  day ! 
That  clarty  barm  *  should  stain  my  laurels ; 

But  — what '11  ye  say? 

These  movin'  things,  ca'd  wives  and  weans, 
Wad  move  the  very  hearts  o'  stanes !  " 
1  Filthy  yeast. 


26  LITERATURE. 

But  he  did  his  public  work  efficiently  in  every  particu- 
lar. He  saw  clearly  enough,  however,  that  the  degrada- 
tion of  his  new  life  would  interfere  with  his  career  as 
poet ;  but  he  resolved  manfully  to  endure  it  for  the  sake 
of  the  dear  ones  dependent  upon  him.  In  a  letter  to  a 
brother  poet  he  thus  humorously  expresses  his  re- 
solve :  — 

'•  But  what  d'  ye  think,  my  trusty  fier,1 
I  'm  turn'd  a  gauger.     Peace  be  here ! 
Parnassian  queans,2  I  fear,  I  fear 

Ye  '11  now  disdain  me, 
And  then  my  fifty  pound  a  year 

Will  little  gain  me. 

"Ye  glaikit,3  gleesome,  dainty  daimies,4 
Wha  by  Castalia's  wimplin'  streamies, 
Lowp,5  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  strang  necessity  supreme  is 

'Mang  sons  o'  men 

"  I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 
They  maun 6  hae  brose  7  and  brats  o1  duddies  8 ; 
Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

I  need  na  vaunt, 

But  I  '11  sned  besoms  9  —  thraw  saugh  woodies,10 
Before  they  want." 

But  the  income  Burns  derived  from  his  excise  work 
was  only  ,£50  a  year,  and  his  financial  distresses  in- 
creased rather  than  diminished.  His  position  became 
almost  unbearable.  "  My  poor,  distracted  mind  is  so 
torn,  jaded,  and  racked,  to  make  one  guinea  do  the 
business  of  three,  that  I  detest  and  abhor  the  very 
word  business."  His  excise  work  not  only  took  him 

i  Friend.        2  The  Muses.         s  Giddy.         4  Dames.         5  Leap.        6  Must. 
7  Porridge.         8  Rags  of  clothing.         9  Cut  brooms.        10  Twist  willow  ropes. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  2 7 

away  from  his  farm  ("he  had  ten  parishes  to  survey, 
covering  a  tract  of  fifty  miles  each  way,  and  requiring 
him  [frequently]  to  ride  200  miles  a  week  ")  ;  it  also  so 
occupied  his  thoughts  that  poetic  composition  became 
impossible  to  him.  But  worse  than  all,  it  separated  him 
from  the  affectionate  domesticity  of  his  home,  and  forced 
him  to  live  much  at  inns  and  public  houses,  where 
every  influence  worked  toward  his  moral  and  mental 
deterioration.  To  a  man  of  inflexible  character  and  un- 
sociable disposition  such  a  life  might  have  proved  harm- 
less. But  to  Burns,  whose  infinite  faculty  of  sympathy 
made  him  welcome  to  every  heart,  —  high  or  low,  rich 
or  poor,  young  or  old,  man  or  woman,  —  the  life  was 
ruinous.  At  the  end  of  1791  the  farm  at  Ellisland  was 
given  up.  He  had  lost  all  his  capital.  He  had  lost 
faith  in  himself  as  a  business  man.  And  he  had  lost 
faith,  too,  in  himself  as  a  man  of  prudent  conduct ; 
lost  that  "  cautious  self-control "  which  he  had  described 
as  "  wisdom's  root  "  ;  lost,  too,  once  more,  his  purity  of 
heart,  and  experienced  again,  as  he  had  in  earlier  days, 
the  bitter  truth  of  his  own  words  :  — 

"  Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace  — 
That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with  anguish, 
Beyond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
By  our  own  folly  or  our  guilt  brought  on." 

Burns'  last  years  were  spent  at  Dumfries.  His  sole 
means  of  livelihood  was  his  income  as  exciseman,  now 
about  £60  a  year.  He  lived  poorly,  but  with  all  his 
faults  he  preserved  his  independence.  He  became  no 
man's  debtor.  At  his  death  it  is  said  he  owed  not  a 
penny.  He  had  hoped  to  get  a  "  collectorship,"  which 
would  have  given  him  .£200  a  year,  and  have  made  him 


2g  LITERATURE. 

easy  in  mind  and  heart  for  life ;  and  had  he  lived  a  year 
or  two  longer  no  doubt  his  hope  would  have  been  real- 
ized. But  to  other  imprudences  he  now,  added  that  of 
taking  an  unnecessarily  offensive  part  in  party  politics. 
The  collect orship  did  not  come  to  him.  His  life  became 
more  and  more  irregular ;  his  friendships  less  and  less 
respectable  and  honoring.  But,  towards  the  end,  the 
clouds  that  had  darkened  his  lowering  sun  were  partly 


HOUSE  IN  WHICH  BURNS  DIED,  DUMFRIES. 

broken  and  showed  a  silvery  lining.  Friends  that  had 
been  alienated  rallied  round  him  again,  and  his  conduct 
became  steadier  and  more  self-controlled.  He  was  al- 
ways punctilious  in  the  discharge  of  his  public  duties ; 
but  now  his  personal  duties  were  equally  faithfully  at- 
tended to.  He  carefully  supervised  his  children's  in- 
struction, and  spent  his  evenings  assisting  them  in  their 
lessons.  He  grew  kinder  and  ever  kinder  to  his  wife, 


ROBERT  BURNS.  2 9 

and  made  his  memory  dear  and  venerable  to  her  as  long 
as  life  was  spared  her.  He  discharged  his  few  debts, 
even  to  the  "  uttermost  farthing."  He  began  to  realize 
in  his  own  home  that  high  ideal  of  domestic  enjoyment 
which  he  himself  some  years  before  had  drawn :  — 

"  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
That 's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 

But,  unfortunately,  early  frivolities  and  later  follies  of 
a  graver  kind  had  undermined  his  constitution ;  and 
when  illnesses  overtook  him  he  had  no  strength  to  with- 
stand them.  In  an  interval  of  convalescence  (July, 
1796)  he  left  Dumfries  for  a  short  visit  to  the  seashore, 
in  the  hope  of  further  recuperation.  But  instead  of 
growing  better,  he  rapidly  grew  worse.  He  returned 
home  again,  "  the  stamp  of  death  on  every  feature." 
His  mind,  his  poetic  soul,  were,  however,  as  clear  and 
as  open  to  inspiration  as  ever.  Some  of  his  most  beau- 
tiful lyrics  were  written  in  his  last  illness ;  as,  for  ex- 
ample, that  one  beginning,  — 

"Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt,1 
1 1d  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee  "  — 

which  was  written  as  a  compliment  to  the  young  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  friend,  who  was  lovingly  attending 
him.  But  on  July  21,  1796,  he  sank  into  his  last  sleep. 
His  little  children  were  beside  him  as  he  passed  away ; 

1  Stormy  direction. 


30  LITERATURE. 

but  his  "Jean,"  "the  lassie"  he  "lo'ed  best,"  who 
gladly  would  have  died  instead  of  him,  alas,  through  ill- 
ness could  not  be  with  him  even  to  say  farewell. 

The  glory  of  Burns'  poetry  is  in  his  songs.  Almost 
all  else  that  he  has  written,  however  excellent  it  may  be, 
is  but  local  or  national.  But  his  song-craft  dealt  with 
the  passions  of  the  universal  human  heart,  and  is  there- 
fore as  universal  as  humanity  itself.  Love,  distress, 
hope,  fear,  joy,  grief,  tenderness,  regret,  as  phases  of 
affection,  never  by  any  other  poet  were  embodied  in 
words  of  such  tuneful  melody,  or  were  the  subject  of 
such  varied  and  effective  exposition.  Burns'  art,  if  art 
he  had,  as  a  lyric  writer,  was  of  that  perfection  of  execu- 
tion which  concealed  all  art.  His  gift  of  lyric  expression 
was  nothing  short  of  divine.  His  songs  literally  and 
absolutely  sang  themselves  into  being.  Of  course  not 
all  he  wrote  was  of  that  superb  quality  of  excellence 
which  his  best  songs  showed.  He  wrote  much  that  was 
far  below  his  own  standard  of  perfection.  But  there  is 
scarcely  even  a  single  song  that  he  wrote  in  which  his 
prayer  was  not  abundantly  answered  :  — 

"  Gie  me  ae  spark  of  Nature's  fire, 
That 's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro1  dub  *  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart." 

There  is  the  secret  of  his  power.  His  muse  does 
"  touch  the  heart  "  ;  touch  it  on  every  side ;  touch  it  to 
its  depths.  And  it  was  because  Burns  knew  that  this 

1  Puddle. 


R  OBER  T  B  URNS.  3 1 

song-craft  of  his  was  a  divine  gift  that  he  would  not  sell 
it.  Alas,  he  often  used  his  gift  unworthily ;  but  when 
once  he  realized  his  mission,  sell  it  he  never  did.  The 
volumes  of  his  poems  published  in  his  lifetime  contained 
but  few  of  his  songs.  The  greater  number  of  them 
were  published  (partly  during  his  lifetime,  but  in  greater 
part  after  his  death)  in  two  works,  —  "  The  Scots  Musical 
Museum,"  edited  by  James  Johnson,  and  "The  Melo- 
dies of  Scotland,"  edited  by  George  Thomson.  John- 
son and  Thomson  were  two  enthusiasts  who  were 
emulous  of  getting  together  complete  anthologies  of 
Scottish  song ;  and  Burns  would  not  take  a  penny  of 
pay  from  either  of  them,  although  he  contributed  to 
Johnson's  collection  over  one  hundred  and  eighty  songs 
and  to  Thomson's  over  sixty.  Not  only  did  he  supply 
original  songs  to  these  collections,  but  he  also  amended 
or  rewrote  many  others,  furnished  notes  and  other  illus- 
trations for  them,  and  otherwise  put  the  whole  vast 
store  of  his  traditionary  lore,  and  all  his  poetical  and 
critical  ability,  at  the  disposal  of  their  editors.  All  this 
he  did  "for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake."  He  wished 
"nae  higher  praise."  And  well  has  Scotland  honored 
his  abiding  faith  in  her  forgiveness  of  his  frailties  and 
her  recognition  of  his  genius.  Burns  is  enthroned  in 
the  hearts  of  Scotsmen  everywhere.  He  is  loved  by 
the  whole  Scottish  people  as  no  other  poet  was  ever 
loved  by  any  people ;  for  the  love  of  Scotland  for  her 
poet  is  a  passion,  —  a  love  that  forgives  all  and  forgets 
all.  And  this  great  love  has  had  its  great  reward.  It 
has  softened  the  national  character,  and  made  clear  to 
the  national  conscience  the  deep  meaning  of  that  heart- 
piercing  reproof ;  "He  that  is  without  sin  among  you 


32  LITERATURE. 

let  him  cast  the  first  stone."  It  has  raised  to  a  national 
rule  of  conduct  the  divine  precept  given  utterance  to  by 
the  poet  they  honor  :  — 

'*  Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentlier,  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a-kennin'  *  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  '  Why'  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

'*  Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring  —  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted." 

i  Little. 


SELECTED   CRITICAL  STUDIES 
AND   REMINISCENCES. 


LORD    ROSEBERY  S    CHARACTERIZATION    OF    BURNS. 

THE  secret  of  Burns'  extraordinary  hold  on  mankind 
lies  in  two  words,  —  inspiration  and  sympathy.  Try  and 
reconstruct  Burns  as  he  was.  A  peasant,  born  in  a 
cottage  that  no  sanitary  inspector  in  these  days  would 
tolerate  for  a  moment  ;  struggling  with  desperate  effort 
against  pauperism,  almost  in  vain ;  snatching  at  scraps 
of  learning  in  the  intervals  of  toil,  as  it  were  with  his 
teeth  ;  a  heavy,  silent  lad,  proud  of  his  ploughing.  All 
of  a  sudden,  without  preface  or  warning,  he  breaks  out 
into  exquisite  song  like  a  nightingale  from  the  brush- 
wood, and  continues  singing  as  sweetly  —  with  nightin- 
gale pauses  —  till  he  dies.  A  nightingale  sings  because 
he  cannot  help  it ;  he  can  only  sing  exquisitely,  because 
he  knows  no  other.  So  it  was  with  Burns.  What  is 
this  but  inspiration  ?  One  can  no  more  measure  or 
reason  about  it  than  measure  or  reason  about  Niagara. 
If  his  talents  were  universal,  his  sympathy  was  not  less 
so.  His  tenderness  was  not  a  mere  selfish  tenderness 
for  his  own  family,  for  he  loved  all  mankind  except  the 
cruel  and  the  base.  Nay,  we  may  go  further,  and  say 
that  he  placed  all  creation,  especially  the  suffering  and 
despised  part  of  it,  under  his  protection.  The  oppressor 
in  every  shape,  even  in  the  comparatively  innocent  em- 

33 


34  LITERATURE. 

bodiment  of  the  factor  and  the  sportsman,  he  regarded 
with  direct  and  personal  hostility. 

We  have  something  to  be  grateful  for  even  in  the 
weaknesses  of  men  like  Burns.  Mankind  is  helped  in 
its  progress  almost  as  much  by  the  study  of  imperfection 
as  by  the  contemplation  of  perfection.  Had  we  nothing 
before  us  in  our  futile  and  halting  lives  but  saints  and 
the  ideal,  we  might  fail  altogether.  We  grope  blindly 
along  the  catacombs  of  the  world,  we  climb  the  dark 
ladder  of  life,  we  feel  our  way  to  futurity,  but  we  can 
scarcely  see  an  inch  around  or  before  us.  We  stumble 
and  falter  and  fall,  our  hands  and  knees  are  bruised  and 
sore,  and  we  look  up  for  light  and  guidance.  Could  we 
see  nothing  but  distant,  unapproachable  impeccability, 
we  might  well  sink  prostrate  in  the  hopelessness  of  emu- 
lation and  the  weariness  of  despair.  Is  it  not,  then, 
when  all  seems  blank  and  lightless  and  lifeless,  when 
strength  and  courage  flag,  and  when  perfection  seems 
as  remote  as  a  star,  is  it  not  then  that  imperfection  helps 
us  ?  When  we  see  that  the  greatest  and  choicest  images 
of  God  have  had  their  weaknesses  like  ours,  their  temp- 
tations, their  hour  of  darkness,  their  bloody  sweat,  are 
we  not  encouraged  by  their  lapses  and  catastrophes  to 
find  energy  for  one  more  effort,  one  more  struggle  ? 
Where  they  failed  we  feel  it  a  less  dishonor  to  fail ;  their 
errors  and  sorrow  make,  as  it  were,  an  easier  ascent 
from  infinite  imperfection  to  infinite  perfection.  Man, 
after  all,  is  not  ripened  by  virtue  alone.  Were  it  so,  this 
world  were  a  paradise  of  angels.  No  !  Like  the  growth 
of  the  earth,  he  is  the  fruit  of  all  the  seasons  —  the  acci- 
dent of  a  thousand  accidents,  a  living  mystery  moving 
through  the  seen  to  the  unseen.  He  is  sown  in  dis- 


FLAXMAN'S  STATUE  OF  BURNS. 


SELECTED    CRITICAL   STUDIES. 


37 


honor  ;  he  is  matured  under  all  varieties  of  heat  and  cold  ; 
in  mist  and  wrath,  in  snow  and  vapors,  in  the  melancholy 
of  autumn,  in  the  torpor  of  winter,  as  well  as  in  the 
rapture  and  fragrance  of  summer,  or  the  balmy  affluence 
of  the  spring,  —  its  breath,  its  sunshine,  its  dew.  And 
at  the  end  he  is  reaped,  —  the  product,  not  of  one  climate, 
but  of  all ;  not  of  good  alone,  but  of  evil ;  not  of  joy 
alone,  but  of  sorrow,  —  perhaps  mellowed  and  ripened, 
perhaps  stricken  and  withered  and  sour.  How,  then, 
shall  we  judge  any  one  ?  How,  at  any  rate,  shall  we 
judge  a  giant,  —  great  in  gifts  and  great  in  temptation  ; 
great  in  strength  and  great  in  weakness  ?  Let  us  glory 
in  his  strength  and  be  comforted  in  his  weakness.  And 
when  we  thank  Heaven  for  the  inestimable  gift  of  Burns, 
we  do  not  need  to  remember  wherein  he  was  imperfect, 
nor  can  we  bring  ourselves  to  regret  that  he  was  made 
of  the  same  clay  as  ourselves.1 


BURNS    HAS    MADE    A    BROTHERHOOD    OF    SCOTSMEN. 

It  is  in  his  songs,  however,  more  than  in  his  poems, 
that  we  find  Burns  most  regularly  at  his  best.  And 
excellence  in  song-writing  is  a  rare  gift.  The  snatches 
scattered  here  and  there  throughout  the  plays  of  Shake- 
speare are  perhaps  the  only  collection  of  lyrics  that  can 
at  all  stand  comparison  with  the  wealth  of  minstrelsy 
Burns  has  left  behind  him.  This  was  his  undying  leg- 
acy to  the  world.  Song-writing  was  a  labor  of  love, 
almost  his  only  comfort  and  consolation  in  the  dark  days 

1  From  an  address  delivered  at  Glasgow  on  the  centenary  of  the  poet's 
death,  July  21,  1896. 


38  LITERATURE. 

of  his  later  years.  He  set  himself  to  this  as  to  a  con- 
genial task,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  writing  himself 
into  the  hearts  of  unborn  generations.  His  songs  live  ; 
they  are  immortal,  because  every  one  is  a  bit  of  his  soul. 
These  are  no  feverish,  hysterical  jingles  of  clinking 
verse,  dead  save  for  the  animating  breath  of  music. 
They  sing  themselves,  because  the  spirit  of  song  is  in 
them.  Quite  as  marvellous  as  his  excellence  in  this 
department  of  poetry  is  his  variety  of  subject.  He  has 
a  song  for  every  age,  a  musical  interpretation  of  every 
mood.  But  this  is  a  subject  for  a  book  to  itself.  His 
songs  are  sung  all  over  the  world.  The  love  he  sings 
appeals  to  all,  for  it  is  elemental  and  is  the  love  of  all. 
Heart  speaks  to  heart  in  the  songs  of  Robert  Burns ; 
there  is  a  freemasonry  in  them  that  binds  Scotsmen  to 
Scotsmen  across  the  seas  in  the  firmest  bonds  of  brother- 
hood. 

What  place  Burns  occupies  as  a  poet  has  been  deter- 
mined not  so  much  by  the  voice  of  criticism  as  by  the 
enthusiastic  way  in  which  his  fellow-mortals  have  taken 
him  to  their  hearts.  The  summing-up  of  a  judge  counts 
for  little  when  the  jury  has  already  made  up  its  mind. 
What  matters  it  whether  a  critic  argues  Burns  into  a 
first  or  second  or  third  rate  poet  ?  His  countrymen, 
and  more  than  his  countrymen,  his  brothers  all  the 
world  over,  who  read  in  his  writings  the  joys  and  sor- 
rows, the  temptations  and  trials,  the  sins  and  shortcom- 
ings, of  a  great-hearted  man,  have  accepted  him  as  a 
prophet,  and  set  him  in  the  front  ranks  of  immortals. 
They  admire  many  poets ;  they  love  Robert  Burns. 
They  have  been  told  their  love  is  unreasoning  and  un- 
reasonable. It  may  be  so.  Love  goes  by  instinct  more 


SELECTED    CRITICAL   STUDIES. 


39 


than  by  reason  ;  and  who  shall  say  it  is  wrong  ?  Yet 
Burns  is  not  loved 'because  of  his  faults  and  failings,  but 
in  spite  of  them.  His  sins  are  not  hidden.  He  himself 
confessed  them  again  and  again,  and  repented  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes.  If  he  did  not  always  abjure  his  weak- 
nesses, he  denounced  them,  and  with  no  uncertain  voice  ; 
nor  do  we  know  how  hardly  he  strove  to  do  more. 

What  estimate  is  to  be  taken  of  Burns  as  a  man? 
will  have  many  and  various  answers.  Those  who  still 
denounce  him  as  the  chief  of  sinners,  and  without  mercy 
condemn  him  out  of  his  own  mouth,  are  those  whom 
Burns  has  pilloried  to  all  posterity.  There  are  dull, 
phlegmatic  beings,  with  blood  no  warmer  than  ditch- 
water,  who  are  virtuous  and  sober  citizens  because  they 
have  never  felt  the  force  of  temptation.  What  power 
could  tempt  them  ?  The  tree  may  be  parched  and 
withered  in  the  heat  of  noonday,  but  the  parasitical 
fungus  draining  its  sap  remains  cool  —  and  poisonous. 
So  in  the  glow  of  sociability  the  Pharisee  remains  cold 
and  clammy ;  the  fever  of  love  leaves  his  blood  at  zero. 
How  can  such  anomalies  understand  a  man  of  Burns' 
wild  and  passionate  nature,  or,  indeed,  human  nature  at 
all  ?  The  broad  fact  remains,  however  much  we  may 
deplore  his  sins  and  shortcomings,  they  are  the  sins  and 
shortcomings  of  a  large-hearted,  healthy  human  being. 
Had  he  loved  less  his  fellow  men  and  women,  he  might 
have  been  accounted  a  better  man.  After  all,  too,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  his  failings  have  been  consis- 
tently exaggerated.  Coleridge,  in  his  habits  of  drawing 
nice  distinctions,  admits  that  Burns  was  not  a  man  of 
degraded  genius,  but  a  degraded  man  of  genius.  Burns 
was  neither  one  nor  the  other,  In  spite  of  the  occa- 


40  LITEjKA  TURE. 

sional  excesses  of  his  later  years,  he  did  not  degenerate 
into  drunkenness,  nor  was  the  sense  of  his  responsibili- 
ties as  a  husband,  a  father,  and  a  man,  less  clear  and 
acute  in  the  last  months  of  his  life  than  it  had  ever  been. 
Had  he  lived  a  few  years  longer  we  should  have  seen  the 
man,  mellowed  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  braving  life,  not 
as  he  had  done  all  along,  with  the  passionate  vehemence 
of  undisciplined  youth,  but  with  the  fortitude  and  dignity 
of  one  who  had  learned  that  contentment  and  peace  are 
the  gifts  which  the  world  cannot  give,  and,  if  he  haply 
finds  them  in  his  own  heart,  which  it  cannot  take  away. 
That  is  the  lesson  we  read  in  the  closing  months  of 
Burns'  checkered  career. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  His  work  was  done.  The 
message  God  had  sent  him  into  the  world  to  deliver  he 
had  delivered,  imperfectly  and  with  faltering  lips  it  may 
be,  but  a  divine  message  all  the  same.  And  because  it 
is  divine  men  still  hear  it  gladly  and  believe. 

Let  all  his  failings  and  defects  be  acknowledged,  his 
sins  as  a  man  and  his  limitations  as  a  poet,  the  want  of 
continuity  and  purpose  in  his  life  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
let  his  nobler  qualities  be  weighed  against  these  and  the 
scale  "  where  the  pure  gold  is  easily  turned  in  the  bal- 
ance." —  GABRIEL  SETOUN. 


BORN    TO    BE    SCOTLAND'S    POET. 

In  the  poems  of  Burns  there  are  two  groups  to  be 
distinguished,  which  faithfully  answer  to  two  stages  in 
his  literary  training.  In  the  first  of  these  he  is  Scottish 
and  natural,  founding  his  work  on  that  of  earlier  Scot- 


Wi 


/ 

) 


FACSIMILE  OF  A  POEM  BY  BURNS. 


42  LITERATURE. 

tish  poets,  and  surpassing  in  his  general  level  the  highest 
reaches  of  their  verse.  In  the  second  he  realized  how 
much  of  his  work  was  at  variance  with  the  prevailing 
tone  of  the  eighteenth-century  English  poetry,  and  tries 
to  fit  himself  into  what  he  conceives  to  be  the  true  liter- 
ary groove.  But  the  vein  is  not  his  own,  and  he  caa 
not  work  it  with  success  ;  seldom  does  he  bring  pure  ore 
out  of  it,  except  where  older  threads  break  out  amid  the 
new,  in  some  isolated  but  brilliant  instances. 

Burns  was  born  to  be  the  poet  of  Scotland,  not  to 
add  new  forms  or  new  ideas  to  the  school  of  Pope  or 
Thomson.  It  was  for  this  that  his  whole  early  life 
fitted  him  ;  his  hardships  lent  their  aid  to  that  end.  If 
they  did  not  leave  him  with  a  "  lean  and  hungry  look," 
he  had  yet  the  other  qualities  of  Cassius  ;  he  read  much, 
he  was  a  great  observer,  and  his  large  and  glowing  eye 
looked  right  through  the  minds  of  men.  Like  Cassius, 
too,  he  was  a  patriot ;  Blind  Harry  had  insured  that 
Scotland  and  Scottish  independence  should  be  to  him  a 
prejudice  that  was  also  an  inspiration.  Even  his  boy- 
hood had  felt  the  desire  to  realize  this  inspiration,  a 
vague  but  burning  wish  :  — 

"  That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  usefu1  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sirrg  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  the  weeder-clips  aside, 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 
No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise  ; 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nae  higher  praise." 


SELECTED   CRITICAL   STUDIES     OF  BURNS.         43 

He  has  said  the  same  thing  more  than  once  in  his 
letters,  but  for  thoughts  like  these  Burns'  only  natural 
expression  is  in  verse.  —  WILLIAM  A.  CRAIGIE. 

THE    YOUNG    DEMOCRACY'S    POET-PROPHET. 

The  scholarly  Gray  had  written  of  the  poor  with 
•refinement  and  taste,  surrounding  them  with  a  certain 
poetic  halo  ;  but  Burns  spoke  not  about,  but  for  them, 
by  his  birthright  and  heritage  of  poverty  and  labor. 
The  young  democracy,  hurrying  on  the  day  through  the 
labors  of  Brindley  the  mechanic,  Hargreaves  the  poor 
weaver,  or  Watt  the  mathematical-instrument  maker's 
apprentice,  finds  its  poet-prophet  in  a  farmer's  boy  of 
the  Scotch  lowlands.  The  natural  music,  the  irresistible 
melody,  of  Burns'  songs  was  learned,  not  from  the  prin- 
ciples of  literary  lawgivers,  but  from  the  songs  of  the 
people.  In  their  captivating  lilt,  their  rich  humor,  their 
note  of  elemental  passion,  is  revealed  the  soul  of  the  peas- 
ant class.  "  Poetry,"  wrote  Wordsworth,  who  preached 
a  little  later  the  superiority  of  inspiration  to  artifice, 
"  poetry  comes  from  the  heart  and  goes  to  the  heart." 
This  is  eminently  true  of  the  poetry  of  Burns,  whose 
best  songs  have  that  heartfelt  and  broadly  human  qual- 
ity which  penetrates  where  more  cultured  verse  fails  to 
enter,  and  which  outlasts  the  most  elaborate  productions 
of  a  less  instinctive  art.  —  PANCOAST. 

THE    PASSIONATE    TREATMENT    OF    LOVE. 

One  element,  the  passionate  treatment  of  love,  had 
been  on  the  whole  absent  from  our  poetry  since  the 


44  LITERA  TURE. 

Restoration.  It  was  restored  by  Robert  Burns.  In 
his  love-songs  we  hear  again,  even  more  simply,  more 
directly,  the  same  natural  music  which  in  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  enchanted  the  world.  It  was  as  a  love-poet 
that  he  began  to  write,  and  the  first  edition  of  his  poems 
appeared  in  1786.  But  he  was  not  only  the  poet  of 
love,  but  also  of  the  new  excitement  about  mankind. 
Himself  poor,  he  sang  the  poor.  He  did  the  same  work 
in  Scotland  in  1786  which  Crabbe  began  in  England  in 
1783,  and  Cowper  in  1785  ;  and  it  is  worth  remarking 
how  the  dates  run  together.  As  in  Cowper,  so  also  in 
Burns,  the  further  widening  of  human  sympathies  is 
shown  in  his  tenderness  for  animals.  He  carried  on 
also  the  Celtic  elements  of  Scottish  poetry,  but  the  rat- 
tling fun  of  the  "  Jolly  Beggars  "  and  of  "Tarn  o'  Shan- 
ter  "  is  united  to  a  life-like  painting  of  human  character 
which  is  peculiarly  English.  A  large  gentleness  of  feel- 
ing often  made  his  wit  into  that  true  humor  which  is 
more  English  than  Celtic,  and  the  passionate  pathos  of 
such  poems  as  "  Mary  in  Heaven  "  is  connected  with  this 
vein  of  English  humor.  The  special  nationality  of  Scot- 
tish poetry  is  as  strong  in  Burns  as  in  any  of  his  prede- 
cessors, but  it  is  also  mingled  with  a  larger  view  of  man 
than  the  merely  national  one.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  carry 
on  the  Scottish  love  of  nature ;  though  he  shows  the 
English  influence  in  using  natural  description  not  for  the 
love  of  nature  alone,  but  as  a  background  for  human 
love.  It  was  the  strength  of  his  passions  and  the  weak- 
ness of  his  moral  will  which  made  his  poetry  and  spoilt 
his  life.  —  STOPFORD  A.  BROOKE. 


SELECTED    CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  BURNS.        45 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  "ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

One  of  the  delights  of  Miss  Begg's  girlhood  was  the 
converse  of  Burns'  mother  concerning  her  first-born 
and  favorite  child,  the  poet,  a  theme  of  which  she  never 
tired.  Miss  Begg1  remembered  her  as  a  "  chirk"  old 
lady,  with  snapping  black  eyes  and  an  abundant  stock  of 
legends  and  ballads.  She  used  to  declare  that  Bobbie 
had  often  heard  her  sing  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  in  his  boy- 
hood; hence  it  would  appear  that,  at  most,  he  only 
revised  that  precious  old  song.  Miss  Begg  more  than 
once  heard  the  mother  tell,  with  manifest  gusto,  this 
incident  of  their  residence  at  Lochlea :  Robert  was 
already  inclined  to  be  wild,  and  between  visiting  his 
sweetheart  Ellison  Begbie —  "  the  lass  of  the  twa  spark- 
ling, roguish  een  "  —  and  attending  the  Tarbolton  club  and 
Masonic  lodge,  was  abroad  until  an  unseemly  hour  every 
night,  and  his  mother  or  Isabella,  [his  sister,  afterwards 
Mrs.  Begg]  sat  up  to  let  him  in.  His  anxious  sire,  the 
"priest-like  father"  of  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night," 
determined  to  administer  an  effectual  rebuke  to  the  son's 
misconduct,  and  one  night  startled  the  mother  by  an- 
nouncing significantly  that  he  would  wait  to  admit  the 
lad.  She  lay  for  hours  (Robert  was  later  than  ever  that 
night),  dreading  the  encounter  between  the  two,  till  she 
heard  the  boy  whistling  "  Tibbie  Fowler "  as  he  ap- 
proached. Then  the  door  opened':  the  father  grimly 
demanded  what  had  kept  him  so  late  ;  the  son,  for  reply, 
gave  a  comical  description  of  his  meeting  auld  Hornie  on 


1  Miss  Begg  was  Burns'  niece.     She  was  the  daughter  of    Burns'    sister,  Isabella, 
who  married  John  Begg. 


46  LITERATURE. 

the  way  home,  —  an  adventure  narrated  in  the  "  Address 
to  the  Deil,"  —and  next  the  mother  heard  the  pair  seat 
themselves  by  the  fire,  where  for  two  hours  the  father 
roared  with  laughter  at  Robert's  ludicrous  account  of 
the  evening's  doings  at  the  club,  —  she,  meanwhile, 
nearly  choking  with  her  efforts  to  restrain  the  laughter 
which  might  remind  the  husband  of  his  intended  re- 
proof. Thereafter  the  lad  stayed  out  as  late  as  he 
pleased  without  rebuke.  —  DR.  T.  F.  WOLFE,  in  "  A 
Literary  Pilgrimage." 

"  HIGHLAND    MARY." 

Nothing  in  Burns'  career  is  so  startling  as  the  inter- 
lineation of  his  loves  ;  they  played  about  him  like  fire- 
flies ;  he  seldom  remembered  to  be  off  with  the  old 
before  he  was  on  with  the  new.  Allured  by  two  kinds 
of  attraction,  those  which  were  mainly  sensual  seem 
scarcely  to  have  interfered  with  others  of  a  higher 
strain.  It  is  now  undoubted  that  his  white  rose  grew  up 
and  bloomed  in  the  midst  of  his  passion  flowers.  Of  his 
attachment  to  Mary  Campbell,  daughter  of  a  Campbelton 
sailor,  and  sometime  nurse  to  the  infant  son  of  Gavin 
Hamilton,  he  was  always  chary  of  speech.  There  is 
little  record  of  their  intimacy  previous  to  their  betrothal 
on  the  second  Sunday,  the  I4th  of  May,  1786,  when, 
standing  one  on  either  bank  of  the  Faille,  they  dipped  their 
hands  in  the  brook,  and  holding  between  them  a  Bible,  — 
in  the  two  volumes  of  which  half-obliterated  inscriptions 
still  remain,  —  they  swore  everlasting  fidelity.  Shortly 
after  she  returned  to  her  native  town,  where  "  Will  you 
goto  the  Indies,  my  Mary  ?  "  and  other  songs  were  sent 


SELECTED   CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  BURNS.         47 

to  her.  Having  bespoken  a  place  in  Glasgow  for  Mar- 
tinmas, she  went  in  the  autumn  to  Greenock  to  attend 
a  sick  brother,  and  caught  from  him  a  fever  which 
proved  fatal  at  some  date  before  October  1 2,  when  her 
lair  was  bought  in  the  West  Kirkyard,  now,  on  her  ac- 
count, the  resort  of  pilgrims.  Mrs.  Begg's  story  of 
Burns  receiving  the  news  of  her  death  has  been  called  in 
question ;  but  how  deep  the  buried  love  lay  in  his  heart 
is  known  to  every  reader  of  his  verse.  After  flowing  on 
in  stillness  for  three  years,  it  broke  forth  as  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  most  pathetic  of  his  songs  — 

.  *»  Thou  lingering  star  with  lessening  ray,"  — 

composed  in  the  course  of  a  windy  October  night,  when 
musing  and  watching  the  skies  about  the  corn-ricks  at 
Ellisland.  Three  years  later,  it  may  have  been  about 
the  same  harvest  time,  even  on  the  same  anniversary, 
the  receding  past,  with  a  throng  of  images,  sad  and 
sweet,  again  swept  over  him,  and  bodied  itself  forth  in 
the  immortal  lyric  — 

"Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
The  Castle  o'  Montgomery," 

which  is  the  last  we  hear  of  Highland  Mary.  —  PROFESSOR 

NICHOLS. 

"  CLARINDA." 

At  last,  however,  out  of  all  patience  with  his  publisher, 
and  recognizing  the  futility  of  his  hopes  of  preferment, 
he  had  resolved  early  in  December  to  leave  Edinburgh, 
when  he  was  compelled  to  stay  against  his  will.  A 
double  accident  befell  him  ;  he  was  introduced  to  a  Mrs. 


48  LITER  A  TURE. 

Maclehose,  and  three  days  afterwards,  through  the  care- 
lessness of  a  drunken  coachman,  he  was  thrown  from  a 
carriage  and  had  his  knee  severely  bruised.  The  latter 
was  an  accident  that  kept  him  confined  to  his  room  for 
a  time,  and  from  which  he  quickly  recovered ;  but  the 
meeting  with  Mrs.  Maclehose  was  a  serious  matter,  and 
for  both  most  unfortunate  in  its  results. 

It  was  while  he  was  "on  the  rack  of  his  present 
agony"  that  the  Sylvander-Clannda  correspondence  was 
begun  and  continued.  That  much  may  be  said  in 
excuse  for  Burns.  A  man,  especially  one  with  the  pas- 
sion and  sensitiveness  of  a  poet,  cannot  be  expected  to 
write  in  all  sanity  when  he  is  racked  by  the  pain  of  an 
injured  limb.  Certainly  the  poet  does  not  show  up  in  a 
pleasant  light  in  this  absurd  interchange  of  gasping 
epistles  ;  nor  does  Mrs.  Maclehose.  "  I  like  the  idea  of 
Arcadian  names  in  a  commerce  of  this  kind,"  he  unguard- 
edly admits.  The  most  obvious  comment  that  occurs  to 
the  mind  of  the  reader  is  that  they  ought  never  to  have 
been  written.  It  is  a  pity  they  were  written  ;  more  than 
a  pity  they  were  ever  published.  .  .  .  Occasionally  he  is 
natural  in  them,  but  rarely.  "  I  shall  certainly  be 
ashamed  of  scrawling  whole  sheets  of  incoherence." 
We  trust  he  was.  The  letters  are  false  in  sentiment, 
stilted  in  diction,  artificial  in  morality.  We  have  a  pic- 
ture of  the  poet  all  through  trying  to  batter  himself  into 
a  passion  he  does  not  feel,  into  love  of  an  accomplished 
and  intellectual  woman  ;  while  in  his  heart's  core  is  reg- 
istered the  image  of  Jean  Armour,  the  mother  of  his 
children.  He  shows  his  paces  before  Clarinda  and  tears 
passion  to  tatters  in  inflated  prose ;  he  poses  as  a  stylist, 
a  moralist,  a  religious  enthusiast,  a  poet,  a  man  of  the 


SELECTED    CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  BURNS.         49 

world,  and  now  and  again  accidentally  he  assumes  the 
face  and  figure  of  Robert  Burns.  .  .  . 

Clarinda  comes  out  of  the  correspondence  better  than 
Sylvander.  Her  letters  are  more  natural  and  vastly 
more  clever.  She  grieves  to  hear  of  his  accident,  and 
sympathises  with  him  in  his  suffering ;  were  she  his 
sister  she  would  call  and  see  him.  He  is  too  romantic 
in  his  style  of  address,  and  must  remember  she  is  a 
married  woman.  Would  he  wait  like  Jacob  seven  years 
for  a  wife  ?  And  perhaps  be  disappointed  !  She  is  not 
unhappy  :  religion  has  been  her  balm  for  every  woe.  .  .  . 
She  could  well  believe  him  when  he  said  that  no  woman 
could  love  as  ardently  as  himself.  .  .  .  But  he  must  not 
rave  ;  he  must  limit  himself  to  friendship.  The  evening 
of  their  third  meeting  was  one  of  the  most  exquisite  she 
had  ever  experienced.  Only  he  must  now  know  she  has 
faults.  She  means  well,  but  is  liable  to  become  the 
victim  of  her  sensibility.  She,  too,  now  prefers  the 
religion  of  the  bosom.  She  cannot  deny  his  power  over 
her ;  would  he  pay  another  evening  visit  on  Saturday  ? 

When  the  poet  is  leaving  Edinburgh,  Clarinda  is 
heartbroken.  "  Oh,  let  the  scenes  of  nature  remind  you 
of  Clarinda !  In  winter,  remember  the  dark  shades  of 
her  fate ;  in  summer,  the  warmth  of  her  friendship ;  in 
autumn,  her  glowing  wishes  to  bestow  plenty  on  all ;  and 
let  spring  animate  you  with  hopes  that  your  friend  may 
yet  surmount  the  wintry  blasts  of  life,  and  revive  to 
taste  a  springtime  of  happiness.  At  all  events,  Syl- 
vander, the  storms  of  life  will  quickly  pass,  and  one 
unbounded  spring  encircle  all.  Love,  there,  is  not  a 
crime.  I  charge  you  to  meet  me  there,  O  God !  I  must 
lay  down  my  pen." 


5<D  LIT  ERA  TURK. 

Poor  Clarinda !  Well  for  her  peace  of  mind  that  the 
poet  was  leaving  her  ;  well  for  Burns,  also,  that  he  was 
leaving  Clarinda  and  Edinburgh.  Only  one  thing  re- 
mained for  both  to  do,  and  it  had  been  wise,  to  burn 
their  letters.  Would  that  Clarinda  had  been  as  much 
alive  to  her  own  good  name,  and  the  poet's  fair  fame,  as 
Peggy  Chalmers,1  who  did  not  preserve  her  letters  from 
Burns  !  —  GABRIEL  SETOUN. 


BURNS      LOVE-SONGS. 

Burns  felt  that  in  deep,  honest  love  lay  all  that  was 
sweetest  and  best  in  life,  and  that  in  singing  of  it  he  was 
discharging  his  truest  mission  as  a  poet.  "  Love,"  he 
wrote  to  his  friend  Cunningham,  "is  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  human  enjoyment.  All  the  pleasures,  all  the 
happiness  of  my  humble  compeers,  flow  immediately  and 
directly  from  this  delicious  source.  It  is  the  spark  of 
celestial  fire  which  lights  up  the  wintry  hut  of  poverty, 
and  makes  the  cheerless  mansion  warm,  comfortable,  and 
gay.  It  is  the  emanation  of  Divinity  that  preserves  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  rustic  labor  from  degenerating  into 
the  brutes  with  which  they  daily  hold  converse.  With- 
out it,  life  to  the  poor  inmates  of  the  cottage  would  be  a 
damning  gift."  To  one  who  could  write  of  love  with 
such  enthusiasm,  the  passion  itself  was  sure  to  be  an  in- 
spiration, and  out  of  it  sprang  some  of  his  most  world-famed 
lyrics.  Some  of  these,  like  his  early  songs,  are  records 
of  real  love ;  others  are  only  poetic  fictions,  even  when 
inspired  by  actual  objects  of  admiration  ;  others  again 


1  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers,  Gavin  Hamilton's  relative.     Eleven  letters  of  Burns  to 
Miss  Chalmers  are  preserved. 


SELECTED    CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  BURNS.        53 

are  of  perfectly  general  content,  the  embodiment  of  a 
love  that  is  not  determined  by  person,  time,  or  place.  It 
was  difficult,  however,  almost  impossible,  for  Burns  to 
write  a  song  to  any  fair  one  in  whom  he  was  at  all  inter- 
ested without  assuming  the  tone  of  the  lover.  —  W.  A. 
CRAIGIE,  in  "A  Primer  of  Burns." 

BURNS    THE    POET    OF    THE    SCOTTISH    PEOPLE. 

No  poet  ever  lived  more  constantly  and  more  inti- 
mately in  the  hearts  of  a  people.  With  their  mirth,  or 
with  their  melancholy,  how  often  do  his  "  native  wood- 
notes  wild"  affect  the  sitters  by  the  ingles  of  low- 
roofed  homes,  till  their  hearts  overflow  with  feelings 
that  place  them  on  a  level,  as  moral  creatures,  with  the 
most  enlightened  in  the  land,  and  more  than  reconcile 
them  with,  make  them  proud  of,  the  condition  assigned 
them  by  Providence!  There  they  see  with  pride  the 
reflection  of  the  character  and  condition  of  their  own 
order.  That  pride  is  one  of  the  best  natural  props  of 
poverty ;  for,  supported  by  it,  the  poor  envy  not  the 
rich.  They  exult  to  know  and  to  feel  that  they  have 
had  treasures  bequeathed  to  them  by  one  of  themselves 
—  treasures  of  the  heart,  the  intellect,  the  fancy,  and 
the  imagination,  of  which  the  possession  and  the  enjoy- 
ment are  one  and  the  same,  as  long  as  they  preserve 
their  integrity  and  their  independence.  The  poor  man, 
as  he  speaks  of  Robert  Burns,  always  holds  up  his  head 
and  regards  you  with  an  elated  look.  A  tender  thought 
of  the  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  or  a  bold  thought  of 
"  Scots  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  may  come  across 
him ;  and  he  who  in  such  a  spirit  loves  home  and  coun- 


54  LITERATURE. 

try,  by  whose  side  may  he  not  walk  an  equal  in  the 
broad  eye  of  day  as  it  shines  over  our  Scottish  hills  ? 
This  is  true  popularity.  Thus  interpreted,  the  word 
sounds  well,  and  recovers  its  ancient  meaning.  The 
land  "made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow"  —the 
broomy  or  the  heathery  braes  —  the  holms  by  the  river's 
side  —  the  forest  where  the  woodman's  ringing  axe  no 
more  disturbs  the  cushat  —  the  deep  dell  where  all  day 
long  sits  solitary  plaided  boy  or  girl  watching  the  kine 
or  the  sheep  —  the  moorland  hut  without  any  garden  — 
the  lowland  cottage,  whose  garden  glows  like  a  very 
orchard,  when  crimsoned  with  fruit-blossoms  most  beau- 
tiful to  behold  —  the  sylvan  homestead  sending  its  reek 
aloft  over  the  huge  sycamore  that  blackens  on  the  hill- 
side —  the  straw-roofed  village  gathering  with  small 
bright  crofts  its  many  white  gable-ends  round  and  about 
the  modest  manse,  and  the  kirk-spire  covered  with  the 
pine  tree  that  shadows  its  horologe  —  the  small,  quiet, 
half-slated,  half -thatched  rural  town,  —  there  resides, 
and  will  forever  reside,  the  immortal  genius  of  Burns.  — 
PROFESSOR  WILSON  ("  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  "). 

WHAT  BURNS  HAS  DONE  FOR  SCOTLAND  AND   THE 

SCOTCH. 

No  wonder  the  peasantry  of  Scotland  have  loved 
Burns  as  perhaps  never  people  loved  a  poet.  He  not 
only  sympathized  with  the  wants,  the  trials,  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  their  obscure  lot,  but  he  interpreted 
these  to  themselves,  and  interpreted  them  to  others, 
and  this,  too,  in  their  own  language  made  musical,  and 
glorified  by  genius.  He  made  the  poorest  ploughman 


SELECTED   CRITICAL  STUDIES   OF  BURNS.         55 

proud  of  his  station  and  his  toil,  since  Robbie  Burns 
had  shared  and  had  sung  them.  He  awoke  a  sympathy 
for  them  in  many  a  heart  that  otherwise  would  never 
have  known  it.  In  looking  up  to  him,  the  Scottish 
people  have  seen  an  impersonation  of  themselves  on  a 
large  scale  —  of  themselves,  both  in  their  virtues  and  in 
their  vices. 

Secondly,  Burns  in  his  poetry  was  not  only  the  in- 
terpreter of  Scotland's  peasantry,  he  was  the  restorer  of 
her  nationality.  When  he  appeared,  the  spirit  of  Scot- 
land was  at  a  low  ebb.  The  fatigue  that  followed  a 
century  of  religious  strife,  the  extinction  of  her  parlia- 
ment, the  stern  suppression  of  the  Jacobite  risings,  the 
removal  of  all  symbols  of  her  royalty  and  nationality, 
had  all  but  quenched  the  ancient  spirit.  Englishmen 
despised  Scotchmen,  and  Scotchmen  seemed  ashamed 
of  themselves  and  of  their  country.  A  race  of  literary 
men  had  sprung  up  in  Edinburgh,  who,  as  to  national 
feeling,  were  entirely  colourless,  Scotchmen  in  nothing 
except  their  dwelling-place.  The  thing  they  most 
dreaded  was  to  be  convicted  of  a  Scotticism.  Among 
these  learned  cosmopolitans  in  walked  Burns,  who  with 
the  instinct  of  genius  chose  for  his  subject  that  Scottish 
life  which  they  ignored,  and  for  his  vehicle  that  vernacu- 
lar which  they  despised,  and  who,  touching  the  springs 
of  long- forgotten  emotions,  brought  back  on  the  hearts 
of  his  countrymen  a  tide  of  patriotic  feeling  to  which 
they  had  long  been  strangers. 

And  though  he  accomplished  but  a  small  part  of  what 
he  once  hoped  to  do,  yet  we  owe  it  to  him  first  of  all 
that  "the  old  kingdom"  has  not  wholly  sunk  into  a 
province.  If  Scotchmen  to-day  love  and  cherish  their 


56  LITERATURE. 

country  with  a  pride  unknown  to  their  ancestors  of  the 
last  century,  if  strangers  of  all  countries  look  on  Scot- 
land as  a  land  of  romance,  this  we  owe  in  great  measure 
to  Burns,  who  first  turned  the  tide,  which  Scott  after- 
wards carried  to  full  flood.  All  that  Scotland  had  done 
and  suffered,  her  romantic  history,  the  manhood  of  her 
people,  the  beauty  of  her  scenery,  would  have  disap- 
peared in  modern  commonplace  and  manufacturing  ugli- 
ness, if  she  had  been  left  without  her  two  "sacred 
poets."  —  J.  C.  SHAIRP. 


All  Burns'  best  pieces  are  written  in  his  native  dia- 
lect. He  knew  English  —  that  is,  the  dialect  of  edu- 
cation and  of  literature  —  well,  and  could  write  in  it 
fluently  and  with  vigour ;  but  it  was  not  his  vernacular, 
and  he  could  not  express  in  it,  with  the  essential  sensi- 
tiveness and  delicacy,  the  ideas  and  emotions  that  called 
for  an  outlet.  So  strangely  intimate  in  the  art  of 
poetry  is  the  connection  between  thought  and  language, 
that  no  language  in  any  sense  foreign  can  suffice  for  the 
representation  of  inmost  and  purest  thought ;  no  trans- 
lation is  endurable.  Whenever  Burns  writes  in  general 
English,  he  becomes  comparatively  languid  and  ineffec- 
tive. David  with  the  sling  and  stone  of  his  youth  can 
more  than  match  even  Goliath ;  with  Saul's  armour  on, 
he  is  but  as,  or  less  than,  any  other  Hebrew ;  and  so 
Burns  with  his  native  Ayrshire,  and  his  acquired  Eng- 
lish. He  essayed  again  and  again  to  write  in  the  lat- 
ter ;  but  nature  was  stronger  than  all  his  efforts.  —  PRO- 
FESSOR J.  W.  HALES,  in  "  Longer  English  Poems" 


SELECTED   CRITICAL   STUDIES.  57 


CARLYLE   ON    BURNS   AND   BYRON. 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries  to 
their  generation,  to  teach  it  a  higher  doctrine,  a  purer 
truth  ;  they  had  a  message  to  deliver,  which  left  them 
no  rest  till  it  was  accomplished ;  in  dim  throes  of  pain, 
this  divine  behest  lay  smouldering  within  them,  for  they 
knew  not  what  it  meant,  and  felt  it  only  in  mysterious 
anticipation,  and  they  had  to  die  without  articulately 
uttering  it.  They  are  in  the  camp  of  the  unconverted, 
yet  not  as  high  messengers  of  rigorous  though  benig- 
nant Truth,  but  as  soft  flattering  singers,  and  in  pleas- 
ant fellowship  will  they  live  there ;  they  are  first  adu- 
lated, then  persecuted  ;  they  accomplish  little  for 
others  ;  they  find  no  peace  for  themselves,  but  only 
death  and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We  confess  it  is 
not  without  a  certain  mournful  awe  that  we  view  the 
fate  of  these  noble  souls,  so  richly  gifted,  yet  ruined  to 
so  little  purpose  with  all  their  gifts.  It  seems  to  us 
there  is  a  stern  moral  taught  in  this  piece  of  history,  — 
twice  told  us  in  our  own  time !  Surely  to  men  of  like 
genius,  if  there  be  any  such,  it  carries  with  it  a  lesson 
of  deep,  impressive  significance.  Surely  it  would  be- 
come such  a  man,  furnished  for  the  highest  of  all  enter- 
prises, —  that  of  being  the  poet  of  his  age,  —  to  con- 
sider well  what  it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit 
he  attempts  it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all 
times,  and  were  never  truer  than  in  this :  "  He  who 
would  write  heroic  poems  must  make  his  whole  life  a 
heroic  poem."  If  he  cannot  first  so  make  his  life,  then 
let  him  hasten  from  this  arena ;  for  neither  its  lofty 


58  LITERATURE. 

glories  nor  its  fearful  perils  are  fit  for  him.  Let  him 
dwindle  into  a  modish  ballad-monger ;  let  him  worship 
and  besing  the  idols  of  the  time,  and  the  time  will  not 
fail  to  reward  him,  —  if,  indeed,  he  can  endure  to  live  in 
that  capacity  !  Byron  and  Burns  could  not  live  as  idol- 
priests,  but  the  fire  of  their  own  hearts  consumed  them, 
and  better  it  was  for  them  that  they  could  not.  For 
it  is  not  in  the  favor  of  the  great  or  of  the  small,  but  in 
a  life  of  truth,  and  in  the  inexpugnable  citadel  of  his 
own  soul,  that  a  Byron's  or  a  Burns'  strength  must  lie. 

CARLYLE'S  FINAL  ESTIMATE  OF  BURNS. 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feel- 
ing anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns. 
In  pitying  admiration  he  lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts, 
in  a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than  that  one  of  marble ; 
neither  will  his  works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away  from 
the  memory  of  men.  While  the  Shakespeares  and 
Miltons  roll  on  like  mighty  rivers  through  the  country 
of  Thought,  bearing  fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous 
pearl  fishers  on  their  waves,  this  little  Valclusa  foun- 
tain will  also  arrest  our  eye  ;  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's 
own  and  most  cunning  workmanship,  bursts  from  the 
depths  of  the  earth  with  a  full  gushing  current,  into 
the  light  of  day;  and  often  will  the  traveller  turn 
aside  to  drink  of  its  clear  waters,  and  muse  among 
its  rocks  and  pines ! 


THE  HOME  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 
By  MARGARET  EVA  CAMERON. 


"  I  '11  be  more  respected  a  hundred  years  after  I  am  dead  than  I  am  at 
present." 

WHAT  a  depth  of  sadness,  pathos,  and  alas  !  too,  bit- 
terness, can  we  read  in  these  last  words  of  Scotland's 
greatest  bard.  Yet  never  has  human  prophecy  been 
more  triumphantly  fulfilled  than  this  one,  spoken  in  the 
ear  of  the  devoted  wife  a  century  ago,  as  Burns  realized 
he  was,  as  we  Scots  say,  a  "  done  "  man. 

Every  decade  since  July  21,  1796,  has  added  its  quota 
of  praise,  until  we  have  at  last  reached  a  summit  of 
appreciation  so  widespread  and  international  that  the 
man  who  cannot  admire  must  certainly  refrain  from 
decrying  ;  for  to  all  Englis"h-speaking  peoples  Shake- 
speare the  dramatist,  and  Burns  the  lyrist,  are  immortal. 

At  first  sight  Shakespeare's  connection  in  any  way 
with  Burns  may  seem  extraneous  to  the  subject  in  hand  ; 
but  not  so,  for  are  not  Stratford  and  Alloway  the  shrines 
of  English  literature  ? 

A  visit  to  both  very  quickly  brings  out  that  truly 
"  Facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding,"  and  that  though  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare  is  matchless,  the  Ayrshire  poet 
has  a  stronger  grip  on  the  affections  of  the  masses. 
Few,  if  any,  of  the  poorest  Scots  but  know  and  delight 
in  Burns  ;  hundreds,  even  thousands,  of  English  rustics 
neither  care  for  nor  know  of  Shakespeare.  Compulsory 

59 


6O  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

school  board  education  has  already  had  its  effect ;  but 
Stratford-on-Avon  is  not  conveniently  easy  of  access, 
and  want  of  time  rather  than  want  of  money  keeps 
many  a  one  away.  Indeed,  a  glance  at  the  visitors'  list 
there  very  quickly  shows  that  Americans  and  colonials 
predominate,  whereas  at  Alloway  there  are  more  than 
twice  as  many  annual  visitors,  and  of  these  the  far 
.greater  proportion  are  Scottish  working-folk. 

J.  M.  Barrie,  Ian  Maclaren,  and  George  Macdonald 
have  all  brought  before  the  world  the  fact  that  reticence 
or  suppression  of  emotion  is  the  strongest  characteristic 
trait  of  the  Scot. 

This  is  indeed  true  to  life,  Burns  proving  the  great 
exception  to  the  rule.  Over  everything  connected  with 
his  name  a  glamour  and  enthusiasm  work  like  a  magi- 
cian's spell ;  his  birthday  is  an  annual  fete ;  his  songs 
are  encored  again  and  again,  even  if  indifferently  sung ; 
clubs  and  societies  in  hundreds  delight  to  be  called  by 
his  name ;  statues  and  monuments  are  still  set  up  to  his 
memory ;  and  his  homes  and  grave  are  shrines  for  pil- 
grims just  as  truly  as  were  ever  martyrs'  shrines  in 
mediaeval  days. 

In  1896,  the  hundredth  year  after  the  poet's  death, 
we,  nationally,  broke  through  all  reserve,  and  even  dared 
to  pose  and  to  pose  successfully.  We  covered  the  thatch 
roof  of  his  humble  birthplace  with  evergreens,  and 
wreathed  its  "bonnie  wee  windows"  with  laurel  and 
bay,  while  its  door  was  but  a  peg  for  flowers.  His  por- 
trait in  floral  frame  and  his  name  in  Scottish  thistle 
blooms  were  placed  over  it,  and  under  such  triumphant 
keystone  did  all  enter  reverently. 

At  Alloway  kirk,  the  monument,  the  Auld  Brig  o' 


BURNS'  MONUMENT,  ALLOWAY. 


THE  TWA  BRIGS  o'  AYR. 


THE  HOME    OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  63 

Doon,  St.  Mungo'swell  —  in  Ayr,  Mauchline,  and  every 
village  in  the  Burns  country — did  the  same  wild,  unna- 
tional  enthusiasm  prevail,  while  at  Dumfries,  around  his 
grave,  were  gathered  delegates  from  every  Burns  society 
at  home  and  abroad,  bearers  of  the  most  exquisite  floral 


ALLOWAY  KIRK  AND  BURIAL  PLACE  OF  THE  BURNS  FAMILY. 

offerings.  Even  from  the  parish  church — representa- 
tive of  that  kirk  against  which  he  ran  tilt  — :  hung  the 
nation's  flag  of  the  lion  rampant,  and  beneath  it  — 

"  Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrims'  shrines." 

Well  might  the  newspapers  say,  "  America  was  splen- 
didly represented  "  ;  for  not  a  State  of  the  Union  but  had 
its  messenger  bearing  flowers,  and  side  by  side  with  the 
holly  and  daisies  picked  from  Mossgiel  farm,  and  feathery 


64 


LIT  ERA  TURE. 


palms  from  the  karroos  of  South  Africa,  was  laid  the 
wreath  of  ivy  and  laurel  plucked  from  Walt  Whitman's 
grave.  And  as  fitting  close  to  such  a  national  day,  was 
Lord  Rosebery's  speech,  an  oration  on  a  national  poet 
and  literature  which  will  live  in  literature  the  equal  of 
any  of  Burke' s  panegyrics.  So  for  the  first  time  in  the 
nation's  history  Scotsmen  became  "a  sort  of  poetical 
Mohammedans  gathered  at  a  sort  of  poetical  Mecca"  ; 
and  to  this  Mecca  may  our  children  and  grandchildren 
continue  to  come,  remembering  — 

"  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 

For  weans  and  wife, 
Is  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 


THE  AULD  BRIG  o'  DOOM. 


THE  HOME    OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


BURNS'  MONUMENT,  AYR. 

Starting  from  St.  Enoch's  station,  Glasgow,  by  express 
train,  we  are  rapidly  whirled  through  northern  Ayrshire, 
and  in  little  more  than  an  hour  Ayr  — 

"  Wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses  "  — 

is  reached. 

As  we  leave  the  station  we  realize  immediately  that 
here  Burns  reigns  supreme ;  for  his  magnificent  monu- 
ment, erected  in  1891,  stands  before  us. 

A  colossal  figure  in  bronze  represents  the  poet  wrapt 
in  deep  thought,  with  arms  partly  folded.  The  figure 
faces  toward  Alloway,  two  miles  distant  to  the  south. 


66  LITERATURE. 

The  pedestal  of  Aberdeen  granite,  twelve  feet  high, 
is  very  effectively  treated.  On  its  four  sides  are  bronze 
panels  in  bas-relief  of  scenes  from  the  poet's  works,  — 
"Tarn  o'  Shanter  at  the  Brig  o'  Boon,"  "The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,"  "The  Jolly  Beggars,"  and  last,  but  by 
no  means  least,  "  The  Parting  of  Burns  and  Highland 
Mary,"  which  was  the  gift  of  twenty-five  Americans, 
representing  twelve  States  of  the  Union. 

The  effect  is  greatly  heightened  by  beautiful  flower- 
beds and  shrubs,  the  whole  enclosed  by  a  handsome 
railing.  The  statue  and  its  pedestal  cost  over  $7,000, 
the  panels,  grounds,  and  railing  being  gifts.  There  are 
few  relics  of  Burns  in  the  town  ;  but  we  can  still  cross 
"The  Auld  Brig,"  and  visit  the  "Tarn  o'  Shanter"  inn, 
verified  as  the  haunt  of  the  original  Thomas  Graham  of 
Shanter  and  his  crony,  the  Souter  (shoemaker).  We 
may  sit  in  their  chairs  in  the  low-ceiled  room  upstairs, 
and  even  drink  if  we  will  from  their  wooden  "cogie." 
But  on  the  street  below  four-horse  busses  and  brakes, 
laden  with  folk  "  of  honest,  sonsy  face,"  pass  along  one 
after  the  other,  and  so  we  descend  to  hail  the  first  with 
vacant  seats. 

For  a  fare  of  threepence  (6  cents)  we  can  be  driven 
to  Alloway  and  all  its  sights,  or  we  may  hire  a  smaller 
wagonette,  and  thereby  insure  more  comfort  as  well  as 
time.  But  on  the  public  conveyances  one  better  realizes 
how  truly  the  people  love  "  Robbie."  Men  and  women, 
old  and  young,  weavers,  souters,  miners,  ploughmen,  ma- 
sons, shepherds,  each  and  all  sing  snatches  of  his  songs, 
the  gay  rather  than  the  grave  ;  for  is  it  not  holiday  to 
them,  and  the  shadows  of  life  should  be  in  the  back- 
ground ? 


THE  HOME    OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  67 

What  a  revelation  such  a  drive  is  !  With  our  cultured 
appreciation  of  the  bard  we  can  exactly,  even  enthusias- 
tically, yield  Burns  his  proper  place  in  literature.  We  may 
have  ranked  him  with  Milton,  or  Wordsworth  even  ;  and 
now  we  suddenly  realize  that  they  are  not  quotable  as 
he  is,  and  that,  in  the  midst  of  such  genuine  heartfelt 
love,  ours  is  but  gilded  alloy. 

But  very  soon  the  humble  cottage  by  the  roadside  is 
reached  ;  and  on  paying  the  entry  money  of  twopence 
(4  cents)  we  pass  into  a  large  room,  on  the  walls  of 
which  are  hung  various  engravings,  and  sundry  poems 
and  songs  written  out  in  the  poet's  bold,  clear  hand. 
But  such  things  are  of  minor  importance  ;  for  every  one 
hurries  into  the  small  kitchen  with  its  "  earth  "  floor, 
"  box  "  bed,  the  old  wide  chimney  with  "  swey  "  and  pot 
"  cleeks,"  the  plate  rack,  dresser,  eight-day  clock,  chairs, 
and  table, — all  relics  of  the  poet's  early  home.  Here 
truly  can  we  picture  the  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  as 
we  gaze  at  the  fireplace,  and  people  its  humble,  happy 
circle.  But  we  must  at  last  move  on,  for  the  little 
kitchen  is  so  crowded  that  many  are  waiting  their  turn 
outside. 

In  the  hall  behind  the  cottage  we  see  many  portraits 
of  the  poet,  letters,  and  curios  more  quaint  than  valu- 
able, etc.  Until  1881  the  house  was  licensed  as  an  inn, 
but  the  trustees  of  the  national  monument  bought  it  for 
$20,000,  and  turned  it  into  a  tea  and  coffee  house,  and 
so  picnic  parties  make  it  their  headquarters. 

A  little  farther  along  the  road  stand  the  ruins  of  Al- 
loway  kirk,  and  close  to  the  entrance-gate  are  the  graves 
of  William  Burns  his  father,  Agnes  Brown  his  mother, 
and  Mrs.  Begg,  his  youngest  sister,  who  died  in 


68  LITERATURE. 

1856.     On   the  stone  are  the  gifted  son's  well-known 
lines :  - 

**  O  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

Draw  near  with  pious  reverence  and  attend  ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 
The  tender  father  and  the  generous  friend ; 

'*  The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe  ; 

The  dauntless  heart,  that  feared  no  human  pride ; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe : 
'  For  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side.' " 

The  church  is  roofless  ;  its  rafters  even  have  been 
turned  into  "  relics,"  and  dispersed  far  and  near  over  the 
world.  The  bell  still  hangs  in  the  gable,  and  bears  date 
of  1657  ;  but  the  church  was  founded  about  1516. 

The  beautiful  monument  is  almost  opposite  and  stands 
sixty  feet  high.  It  is  nearly  a  copy  of  that  on  the  Cal- 
ton  Hill  in  Edinburgh,  its  style  being  a  harmonious 
blending  of  Greek  and  Roman  architecture. 

The  base  is  triangular,  indicative  of  the  three  districts 
of  Ayrshire,  —  Carrick,  Kyle,  and  Cunninghame,  —  and 
within  is  a  handsome  room.  Here  we  see  many  things 
of  interest,  —  most  notable  the  two  half  bibles,  the  in- 
scriptions quite  legible,  presented  by  Burns  to  Highland 
Mary  with  a  lock  of  his  hair. 

Outside  in  the  gardens  one  is  tempted  to  sit  and  gaze 
over  the  river  Boon  ;  but  before  leaving,  the  statue  of 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  and  Souter  Johnny  must  be  visited. 
The  Souter's  apron,  his  turned-in  toes,  and  the  leer  on 
his  face  are  startlingly  life-like  ;  and  Tarn's  worsted 
stockings  appear  real  "hodden  gray." 

On  the  Auld  Brig  a  merry  party  are  singing  "  Ye 
Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon,"  and  its  echoes  come 


THE  HOME  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


69 


over  the  water  sweetly  as  we  stand  by  St.  Mungo's 
well.  As  we  look  upward  at  this  beautiful  national 
monument  erected  at  a  cost  of  $16,000,  we  might  sadly 
reflect  that  money  for  Burns  dead  is  not  lacking,  and 
that  the  many  twopences  of  admission  would  have  been 
to  him  a  handsome  fortune. 

We  tear  ourselves   away  at   last  ;  and,  somehow,  we 
realize  that  the  indefinable  something  has  affected  the 


POOSIE  NANSIE'S  INN,  MAUCHLINE  STATION. 

spirits  of  all,  and  that  the  grave  rather  than  the  gay  pre- 
dominates on  our  way  back.  One  fault  only  would  we 
find,  —  the  sign  upon  the  cottage  wall  tells  us  that  here 
was  born  Burns,  the  Ayrshire  poet.  Is  he  not  Burns, 
our  national  poet  ?  From  Ayr  as  a  centre,  we  can  make 
daily  trips  to  well-known  scenes,  such  as  Tarn's  farm 
and  Kirkoswald  churchyard,  where  he  and  the  Souter  lie 


7o 


LITERATURE. 


buried.  Twelve  miles  distant  by  road  is  Mauchline,  half 
a  mile  from  which  stands  Mossgiel,  where  the  poet  lived 
for  seven  years,  and  where,  too,  he  wrote  so  many  of  his 
finest  poems.  Here  grow  the  daisies,  "  wee,  modest, 
crimson-tipped  flowers,"  and  here,  too,  cowered  the  "  mou- 
sie  in  his  biel."  Jean  Armour,  his  devoted  wife,  was  one 
of  Mauchline's  "six  proper  young  belles."  Poosie  Nan- 
sie's  inn,  the  scene  of  the  Jolly  Beggars,  stands  opposite 
the  churchyard  gate  ;  the  churchyard  recalls  "  The  Holy 
Fair";  and,  of  the  poet's  friends  now  sleeping  in  its 
"monies,"  we  must  remember  Mary  Morrison,  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  his  tenderest  songs.  The  "  Braes  o' 
Ballochmyle"  are  near;  and  in  the  woody  shades  of 
Montgomery,  Highland  Mary  and  he  together  spent 
"one  day  of  parting  love."  Turn  where  we  will,  every 
field  and  tree  and  stream  has  its  associations.  In  Dum- 
fries, sixty  miles  toward  the  English  border,  we  have 
only  saddest  of  memories.  Here  the  poet,  to  use  a 
most  expressive  Scotch  phrase,  "fairly  forgot  himself  "  ; 
and  the  tragedy  of  his  life  rapidly  was  brought  to  a  close. 
His  home  here  somehow  lacks  interest,  and  we  turn  to 
the  grand  mausoleum  in  St.  Michael's  churchyard  under- 
neath which  he  now  rests.  Its  sculptured  marble  tells 
his  own  tale  :  "  The  poetic  genius  of  my  own  country 
found  me  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did  Elisha — at 
the  plough  —  and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me." 
The  year  1 896  was  so  notable  that  one  naturally  con- 
cluded there  would  be  comparatively  few  visitors  to  Al- 
loway  in  1897,  but  in  that  September  the  tale  was  the 
same  of  daily  eager  crowds  ;  and  so  it  goes  on  continu- 
ally. One  party,  however,  excelled  in  interest ;  for  the 
rector  of  Stratford-on-Avon  and  members  of  the  Shake- 


THE  HOME   OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  73 

spearean  society  visited  the  cottage,  and  hung  up  on  the 
box-bed  a  wreath  of  laurel  picked  from  Shakespeare's 
garden,  as  "  a  token  of  affection  from  all  Shakespeareans 
for  the  poet  of  Scotland."  On  the  card  attached  were 
the  great  bard's  lines  :  — 

"  To  make  the  weeper  laugh,  the  laugher  weep, 
He  had  the  dialect  and  different  skill, 
Catching  the  passions  in  his  craft  of  will." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  visible  link  between  Stratford  and 
Alloway.  May  every  one  realize  on  leaving  Alloway 
that  it  is  good  for  him  to  have  been  here ;  and  may  we 
never  forget  that  our  most  magnificent  monuments  are 
but  small  homages  to  a  man  from  whom  we  have  received 
so  much,  and  all  sink  into  insignificance  in  comparison 
with  that  humble  thatched  cottage. 

MARGARET  EVA  CAMERON. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED   TO   ROBERT  AIKEN,   ESQ.,   OF  AYR. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

GRAY. 

MY  lov'd,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend  I 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end ; 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sngh  ;  ' 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh  ; 2 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  3  to  their  repose : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil 4  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn5  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

1  Moan.        2  Plough.        3  Crows.        *  Toil.        5  Morrow. 
74 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  75 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  x  through 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  2  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,3  blinkin'  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 

An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,4  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca' 5  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin  G 

A  cannie  7  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 8 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  9  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee,10 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet,. 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  :  ll 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  12  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers,13 

Gars  auld  claes  14  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  15  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  1G  or  play : 
"  An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night  t 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  17  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !  " 

1  Stagger.  2  Fluttering.  3  Fireplace.  4  By  and  by.  5  Drive.  °  Atten- 
tively run.  7  Quiet.  8  Neighboring  farm.  9  Fine.  10  Hardly  earned  wages. 
11  Inquires.  12  Strange  things.  13  Scissors.  14  Makes  old  clothes.  15  Diligent. 
»«  Dally.  ^  GO. 


7  6  LITERATURE. 

But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  l  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  2  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek : 
Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins 3  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears,  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 4 

A  strappan  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 

The  father  cracks  5  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye.6 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 

But  blate  and  laithfuV  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  F ae  grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave.8 

0  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyo-nd  compare  ! 

1  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
*'  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart  — 

A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth  ! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild! 

1  Who  knows.        2  Accompany.          3  Half.        4  Into  the  room.      5  Chats.      G  Kine, 
cattle.         7  Bashful  and  hesitating.         8  Like  other  people. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  77 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,1  chief  o'  Scotia's  food: 
^The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  2  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan 3  snugly  chows  her  cood. 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck,  fell ;  * 
An'  aft  he 's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  't  was  a  towmond  5  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell.6 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,7  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  8  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  9  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  10  a  portion  with  judicious  care, 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !  "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  «*  Dundee's  "  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  "  Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name ; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin  "  beets  "  the  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickl'd  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

1  Wholesome  porridge.          2  White-faced  cow.         8  Partition  wall.  4  Well-saved 

cheese,  tasty.         B  Twelvemonth.         6  Flax  was  in  flower.          7  Fireplace.          8  Once. 
»  Gray  sidelocks.        10  Selects.        ll  Feeds. 


78  LITERATURE. 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head  ; 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he.  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 

And    heard    great    Bab'lon's    doom    pronounc'd    by    Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  79 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad  : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"  An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God  " : 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  renVd  ! 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  Oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  hovve'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  Isle. 

O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 
Who  dar'd  to,  nobly,  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


TO    A    MOUNTAIN    DAISY, 

ON   TURNING   ONE   DOWN   WITH   THE   PLOUGH    IN   APRIL,    1786. 

WEE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou  'st  met  me  in  the  evil  hour ; 


8o  LITERATURE. 

For  I  maun  l  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem ; 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 
Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas !  it 's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 3 

Wi'  spreckPd  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 

High  shearing  woods  and  wa's  maun  4  shield  j 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield  5 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  6  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  up  tears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soird,  is  laid 

Low  i1  the  dust. 

*  Must.        2  Dust.        3  Moisture.         *  Must.        B  Shelter.        °  Dry. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  8 1 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd  sink ! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


MAN    WAS    MADE    TO    MOURN 
A  DIRGE. 

WHEN  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  ev'ning  as  I  wander'd  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spy'd  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rest  thou? 

Began  the  rev'rend  Sage  ; 
Dost  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 


82  LITERATURE. 

Or,  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes 
Too  soon  thou  hast  began 

To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  Man. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ; 
I  Ve  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  : 
And  evVy  time  has  added  proofs, 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

O  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway ; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  give  nature's  law, 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right. 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
Then  age  and  want,  Oh  !  ill-match'd  pair  ! 

Show  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  Oh  !  what  crowds  in  ev'ry  land 

All  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Thro1  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 


STATUE  OF  BURNS,  DUMFRIES. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  85 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frames  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  I  'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave, 

By  nature's  law  design'd, 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty,  or  scorn? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow'r 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 
This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

O  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 


86  LITERATURE. 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 
From  pomp  and  pleasures  torn  ; 

But,  Oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn ! 


THE    BANKS    O      BOON. 

YE  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o1  care ! 
Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  —  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o1  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


TAM    O      SHANTER. 
A  TALE. 

WHEN  chapman  billies  *  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  2  neebors,  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An1  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 3 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,4 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 

*  Pedlar  fellows.         2  Thirsty.         3  Road.        4  Ale. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  89 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,1  and  styles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses.) 

O  Tarn  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum,2 
A  blethering,3  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ;  * 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 
That  ilka  melder,5  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ;  6 
That  ev'ry  naig  7  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on,8 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou 9  on  ; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesy'd  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Boon ; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk,10 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet,11 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen'd,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  Ae  12  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted,  unco  right,13 
Fast  by  an  ingle,14  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,15  that  drank  divinely; 

1  Openings  in  hedges.  2  Good-for-nothing  fellow.  3  Nonsensical.  *  Noisy  fel- 
low. 5  Every  milling.  6  Money.  7  Nag.  8  Was  driven  to  have  a  shoe  on. 
8  Drunk.  10  Dark.  »  Makes  me  weep.  12  One.  13  Exceedingly  comfortable. 
14  Fireplace.  15  Foaming  ale. 


o  LITERA  TURE. 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  x  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  2  crony ; 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  3  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter ;  4 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 
The  landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair  5  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy : 6 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  7  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure  ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a1  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flovv'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ;  — 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  ; 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in  ; 

And  sic  8  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast : 

i  Shoemaker.        2  Thirsty.        »  Tipsy.        4  Chat.        c  Roar.  •  Ale.        1  Loads. 

Such. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  91 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow'd : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tarn  skelpit  1  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 

Whiles  2  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet ; 

Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 

Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi1  prudent  cares, 

Lest  bogles  3  catch  him  unawares ; 

Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets 4  nightly  cry.  — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw,  the  chapman  smoor'd  ; 5 
And  past  the  birks  6  and  meikle  7  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane  ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon 8  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel.  — 
Before  him  Boon  pours  all  his  floods  ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll : 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze  ; 9 
Thro'  ilka  bore  10  the  beams  were  glancing; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing.  — 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 

WTi'  tippenny,11  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi'  usquebae,12  we  '11  face  the  devil  !  — 

1  Rode  quickly.  2  Sometimes.  3  Goblins.  4  Owls.  5  Pedlar  was  smothered. 
'  Birches.  7  Large.  8  Above.  9  Blaze.  10  Every  crevice.  u  Twopenny  ale. 
'*  Whisky. 


92  LITERATURE. 

The  swats  1  sae  ream'd  2  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle.3 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  wow  !  Tarn  saw  an  unco  4  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 
Nae  cotillion  brent  new 5  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  6  in  the  east, 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast ; 
A  towzie  tyke,7  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  : 
He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl,8 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.9  — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight,10 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light,  — 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  1X  table, 
A  murderers  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ;  12 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns  ; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  13  did  gape  ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red  rusted; 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  14  son  o'  life  bereft, 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,15  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 

1  Ale.  2  Frothed  or   mounted.          3  Farthing.          4  Strange.  B  Brand-new. 

6  Window  recess.  7 Shaggy  dog.  8  Made  them  sreech.  9  Thrill,  vibrate. 

10  Magical  trick.        n  Holy.        12  Irons.         13  Mouth.         «  Own.         15  Stared. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  93 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 

They  reePd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit,1 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit,2 

And  coost  her  duddies  3  to  the  wark, 

And  linket 4  at  it  in  her  sark  !  6 

Now  Tarn,  O  Tarn !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen,6 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linnen ! 7 
Thir  breeks  8  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o1  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies,9 
For  ae  blink  10  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  !  " 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwooddie  12  hags  wad  spean  13  a  foal, 
Lowping  14  and  flinging  on  a  crummock,16 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tarn  kend  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie,10 

There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  waulie,17 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore ; 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,18 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear,) 

Her  cutty  sark,19  o'  Paisley  harn,20 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  tho1  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.11  — 

Ah  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 

That  sark  she  coft 22  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

1  Linked  arms.  2  Every  hag  sweated  and  smoked.  8  Cast  off  her  clothes. 
4  Tripped  smartly.  e  Chemise.  6  Greasy  flannel.  7  Very  fine  (No.  1700)  linen. 
8  These  breeches.  9  Thighs,  legs.  10  One  look.  "  Lasses.  12  Gaunt  and 
withered.  13  That  would  wean.  14  Leaping.  15  Crook -headed  staff.  16  Very 
well.  17  Tall  and  good-looking.  18  Much  wheat  and  barley.  19  Short  shirt. 

20  Coarse  linen.        21  Boastful,  proud.        22  Bought. 


94  LITERA  TURE. 

Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('t  was  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 1 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r  ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang,2 
(A  souple  jade  she  was,  and  strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  8  enriched ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  4  fu1  fain, 
And  hotch'd  5  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  6  anither, 
Tam  tint  7  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark! " 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi1  angry  fyke,8 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ;  9 

As  open  pussie's  10  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When,  "  Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi1  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  "  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou  '11  get  thy  fairin'! 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin' ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin' ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig  :  12 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  darena  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  13  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 

1  Must  lower.  2  Leaped  and  flung.          3  Eyes.  4  Fidgeted.          5  Hitched. 

°Then.         7  Lost.          8  Fuss.          8  Nest.          10  The  hare's.          ll  Unearthly  screech. 
'2  Bridge.        1S  Devil. 


READINGS  FROM  BURNS.  95 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle  ; l 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  2  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump  ! 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  tak  heed  : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 

1  Intent.  2  Hag  clutched. 


STUDENTS'  NOTES  AND  QUERIES. 


QUERIES. 

I.  Who  were  the  heroines  of  the  songs  in  which  the  following 
verses  or  stanzas  occur? 

(a)  "  A  bonny  lass,  I  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  ee, 
But  without  some  better  qualities 
She  's  no  a  lass  for  me." 

(£)  ««  Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 
As  spotless  as  she  's  bonny,  O ; 
The  opening  gowan,  wet  wi'  dew, 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O." 

(<:)  "  Ye  geek  at  me  because  I  'm  poor, 
But  feint  a  hair  care  I." 

(d}  "  And  she  's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  e'en." 

(e)  "  Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing  — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw." 

(/)  "  I  kent  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain ; 

I  loved  her  most  sincerely : 
I  kissed  her  owre  and  owre  again, 
Amang  the  rigs  o1  barley." 

(g)  "  Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O, 
And  warl'ly  cares,  and  warHy  men, 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O." 
96 


BURNS— NOTES  AND   QUERIES.  97 

(ft)  '*  Though  mountains  rise,  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between, 
Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  sowl, 
I  still  would  love  my  Jean." 

(*)  "  Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary  \s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream  — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream." 

(/)  "  Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O ! 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 
To  sing  my  Highland  Lassie,  O." 

(K)  "  Powers  celestial !  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 

While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care." 

(/)  *'  How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding  Devon, 

With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  blooming  fair  ! 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr." 

(m)  "  There 's  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There  's  not  a  bonny  bird  that  sings, 
But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean." 

(n)  "  That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget? 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove, 
Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ?  " 

(o)  "I  gaed  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear,  I  '11  dearly  rue ; 
I  got  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  e'en, 
Twa  lovely  e'en  o'  bonny  blue." 

(/)  "  Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 
Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine." 


98  LITER  A  TURE. 

(g)  "  Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then,  for  ever ! " 

(r)  "  Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care ; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember, 
Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh  !  ne'er  to  meet  mair." 

(s)  **  The  snaw-drop  and  primrose  our  woodlands  adorn, 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o'  the  morn ; 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they  blaw, 
They  mind  me  o'  Nannie  —  and  Nannie  's  awa'." 

(t)   "  Oh,  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border? 
She 's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

"  To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 
For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  another." 

* 

(a)  "  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care  ?  " 

(v}  "Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o1  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie." 

(w)   "  Oh  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 
But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie. 
Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose." 

(x)  *'  Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do? 
She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na : 
At  length  she  blushed  a  sweet  content, 
And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa." 


BURNS— NOTES  AND    QUERIES.  99 

(y)  "  Such  was  my  Chloris1  bonny  face, 

When  first  her  bonny  face  I  saw ; 

And  aye  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'." 

(2)  "  Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,  ' 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I  'd  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee." 


2.  In  what  well-known  poems  may  the  following  verses  or  stanzas 
be  found? 

(a)   •*  Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 

And  some  great  lies  were  never  penned  : 
E'en  ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn'd, 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail  't  wi1  Scripture." 

(#)  "Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic 's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  needna  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi1  bick'ring  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle." 

(c)  "  But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 
Oh,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  — 
I  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake." 

(d)  "  Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  ; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose." 

(e)  "  Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 


100  LITERATURE. 

And  strutted  in  a  bank,  and  clerkit 

My  cash-account ; 
While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit. 

Is  a'  th'  amount." 

(fy  "  But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them 
They  mak  enow  themselves  to  vex  them." 

(g)  "Oh,  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us  ! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion ; 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  e'en  devotion ! " 

(ti)  "  Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far,  perhaps,  they  rue  it." 

(0  "  Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring  —  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

(/)  "  Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray 'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust." 


BURNS— NOTES  AND   QUERIES.  IQI 

(£)  "  Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppressed  with  care, 

A  burden  more  than  I  can  fyear/,1'   ,'      !..»»  >t  }  ',  ,'•  j'.  j 

I  sit  me  down  and  sigh : 
O  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I.'' 

(/)  "  Guid  grant  that  thou  may  aye  inherit 
Thy  mither's  person,  grace,  and  merit, 
And  thy  poor  worthless  daddy's  spirit, 

Without  his  failing : 
'TwiM  please  me  mair  to  see't  and  hear't 

Than  stockit  mailins." 

(m)  "  When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes, 
Our  neighbor's  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan ; 
But  thee  —  thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 
Aye  mocks  our  groan  !'" 

(n)  "  It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank  ; 

It 's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank,  — 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest : 
It's  no  in  making  muckle  mair ; 
It 's  no  in  books  ;  it 's  no  in  lear,  — 
To  make  us  truly  blest." 

(0)  "  Gie  me  a  spark  o'  Nature's  fire ! 
That 's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  : 
Then,  though  I  drudge  through  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart." 

(fi)  "  To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 

To  weans  and  wife,  — 
That 's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 


I O2  LITER  A  TORE. 

ANSWERS. 

1.  (a)  Nelly    Kirkpatrick;    (£)  Agnes    Fleming;    (V)  Isabella 
Steven;   (d)  Ellison  Begbie ;   (<?)  Mary  Morison  ;  (/)  Annie  Ron- 
ald ;     (g)  uncertain;     (/z)  Jean    Armour    (afterwards    his    wife); 
(/)  uncertain,  but  supposed  to  be  "  Highland  Mary  ";    (/)  "High- 
land Mary " ;   (£)  the  same ;    (/)  Miss  Charlotte   Hamilton ;   (M) 
his   wife;    (n)  "Highland   Mary1';    (0)  Miss  Jean    Jeffrey ;    (p) 
Miss  Deborah   Davies    ("lovely   Davies ")  ;    (g)  Mrs.  McLehose 
("  Clarinda")  -—  Mrs.  Jameson  speaking  of  this  song  says  :  "  It  is 
itself  a  complete  romance,  and  contains  the  essence  of  an  existence 
of  pain  and  pleasure  distilled  into  one  burning  drop  " ;  (r)  Mrs. 
McLehose  ;  (s)  the  same  ;   (/)  Miss  Lesley  Baillie  ;   («)  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  gentleman  of  Carrick,  name  not  now  known  ;  (v)   "  High- 
land  Mary " ;  (w)  Miss  Jessie    Staig ;  (#)  Miss  Jean   M'Murdo ; 
(/)  Jean  Lorimer ;  (2)  Jessie  Lewars. 

2.  (a)  "Death   and  Dr.    Hornbook";    (b)  "To  a   Mouse"; 
(c)  "  Address  to  the  Deil ";  (d}   "  The  Jolly  Beggars"  ;  (e)   "The 
Vision";  (/)  "  The  Twa  Dogs ";  (g)  "To  a  Louse";  (/&)  "Ad- 
dress to  the  Unco   Guid";    (/)  the  same;  (/)  "To  a  Mountain 
Daisy";    (k)  "  Despondency.— An   Ode";  (/)    "To   his  Illegiti- 
mate Child  " ;  (m)   "  Address  to  the  Toothache  " :  («)  "  Epistle  to 
Davie";    (^7)  "Epistle  to  John   Lapraik";  (/)  "Epistle  to  Dr. 
Blacklock." 


STUDY  OUTLINE  FOR  CLUBS  AND   CIRCLES. 


THE  aim  of  the  present  book  is  to  give  the  reader 
such  facilities  for  the  study  of  Burns  as  will  make  other 
helps  unnecessary.  To  assist  readers,  however,  both 
those  who  may  be  content  with  what  is  here  given  and 
those  who  may  wish  to  make  a  further  study  of  Burns, 
the  following  outline  is  drawn  up.  It  will  be  especially 
useful  to  members  of  clubs  and  circles  who  may  wish  to 
confine  their  study  of  Burns  to  one  or  two  evenings,  and 
who  yet  desire  in  that  time  to  get  as  much  out  of  their 
study  as  possible.  It  will  be  useful  also  to  those  who 
wish  to  know  something  about  the  literature  on  Burns 
most  available  to  the  ordinary  reader. 

1.  Read  the  "  Biographical  Study"  as  herein  given. 

2.  Find  in  Burns'  poems  the  particular  poems  from  which  the  ex- 
tracts in  the  biographical  study  have  been  taken. 

3.  Read  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 

4.  Find  and  read  the  poems  written  in  honor  of  (i)  Jean  Armour 
(Mrs.  Burns),  (2)  Highland  Mary,  (3)  Mary  Morison,  (4)  Charlotte 
Hamilton,  (5)  "  Clarinda,"  (6)  Jean  McMurdo,  (7)  Jean  Lorimer, 
(8)  Jessie  Staig,  (9)  Jessie  Lewars. 

5.  Read  "  A  Mountain  Daisy,"  "  To  a  Mouse,"  "  The  Wounded 
Hare,"  "  John  Anderson,  My  Jo,"  "  Address  of  Bruce  at  Bannock- 
burn,"     "Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,"  "Sweet  Afton," 
"  The  Banks  of  Boon,"   "  The  Twa  Dogs,"  "The  Brigs  of  Ayr," 
"  To  a  Haggis,"  "  For  a'  that  and  a'  that,"  "  Hallowe'en,"  "  The 
Jolly   Beggars,"   "  Tarn    o'   Shanter,"    "Holy    Willie's    Prayer." 

103 


IO4  BURNS— STUDY  OUTLINE. 

(NOTE.     Not  all  the  poems  and  songs  here  mentioned  are  suitable 
for  reading  in  public.) 

6.  Members  of  clubs  and  circles,  as  well  as  private  students,  will 
also  find  considerable  interest  in  hunting  up  and  reading  the  poems 
referred  to  in  our  "  Students'  Notes  and  Queries."  Some  of  these,  it 
may  be  remarked,  are  the  same  as  some  of  those  in  the  lists  above, 
but  many  are  different. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Front  the  Painting  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY. 
By  JOHN  EBENEZER  BRYANT. 

SCOTT  is  incomparably  the  world's  greatest  novelist 
of  the  romantic  school.  Nay,  more;  he  is  one  of  the 
world's  very  greatest  masters  of  imagination  In  the  liter- 
ary art.  Only  a  few  others  —  as,  for  example,  Dickens 
—  can  be  ranked  equal  with  him.  Only  a  very  few  — 
as,  for  example,  Shakespeare  —  can  be  placed  in  any 
respect  above  him.  He  has  his  limitations,  even  as 
Dickens  had,  even  also  as  Shakespeare  had ;  but,  not- 
withstanding all  these,  the  verdict  of  the  reading  public 
of  to-day,  as  was  that  of  the  reading  public  of  his  own 
time,  is  that  as  a  creator  of  fictional  character,  and  espe- 
cially as  a  re-creator  of  the  historic  past,  Scott's  genius 
was  second  only  to  that  of  Shakespeare,  if,  indeed,  in 
these  respects  it  was  not  equal  to  Shakespeare's. 

There  exists  just  now  a  school  of  critics  —  an  exigu- 
ous and  unfollowed  school,  however  —  who  affect  to  find 
Scott's  imaginative  work  insufficiently  realistic,  and  who 
would  therefore  rank  him  as  an  artist  inferior  to  those 
ingenious  but  scarcely  highly  gifted  literary  craftsmen 
whose  fine-spun  attenuation  of  frugal  incident  and  plot, 
and  photographic  reproduction  of  merely  contemporary 


109 


HO  LITERATURE. 

life  and  character,  are  the  dominant  features  of  the  im- 
aginative literature  of  this  last  decade  of  our  century. 

But  because  of  such  an  opinion  as  this,  let  no  ingenu- 
ous youth  who  has  formed  a  taste  for  reading  Scott's 
romances  fear  to  confess  his  fondness  for  them,  or  fail, 
if  such  be  his  bent,  to  take  generous  and  enthusiastic 
pride  in  his  delight  in  them.  The  greatest  scholars  and 
thinkers  of  every  generation  since  these  romances  first 
began  to  appear,  the  greatest  masters  in  every  fine  and 
in  every  industrial  art,  have  taken  the  same  delight  in 
them,  and  have  felt  the  same  exaltation  because  of  their 
delight  in  them.  For  to  know  Scott  is  precisely  the 
same  kind  of  knowledge  as  to  know  Shakespeare ;  and 
to  be  fond  of  Scott,  to  take  delight  in  reading  and  re- 
membering Scott,  gives  rise  to  the  same  glow  and  exal- 
tation of  feeling  that  one  experiences  who  is  fond  of 
Shakespeare,  and  who  takes  delight  in  reading  and 
remembering  Shakespeare. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  Aug.  15,  1771. 
His  father  was  an  attorney  —  a  strictly  upright,  proud, 
precise,  and  formal  man,  conscientiously  methodical  and 
industrious,  from  whom,  no  doubt,  Scott  derived  much 
of  his  sense  of  honor,  his  pride,  his  conservatism,  and  his 
dogged,  determined,  persevering  habits  of  work.  His 
mother  was  a  well-educated  woman,  of  great  power  of 
memory  and  great  faculty  for  narration  ;  and  undoubtedly 
it  is  to  her  that  the  future  novelist's  own  marvellous 
power  of  memory  and  faculty  for  narration  must  be 
ascribed.  But  Scott's  wonderfully  composite  character 
and  vast  intellectual  endowment  were  derived  quite  as 
much  from  other  ancestors  as  from  these  immediate  ones. 
He  came  from  a  race  of  border  gentry,  many  of  them, 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT. 


Ill 


in  earlier  times,  border  raiders,  moss-troopers,  and  free 
lances,  and  from  them,  no  doubt,  inherited  that  courage, 
self-confidence,  and  bold  readiness  to  try  throws  with 
fortune  at  any  time,  which  in  prosperous  days  led  him 
into  enterprises  which  his  prudence  should  have  for- 
bidden, and  which  in  days  when  calamities  came  pouring 
thick  upon  him,  gave  him  not  merely  fortitude  to  endure 
them,  but  resolute  determination  heroically  to  set  his 
face  to  conquer  them. 

As  a  child  Scott  was  precocious  far  beyond  the  ordi- 
nary, and  early  gave  promise  of  being  a  remarkable  per- 


WALTER  SCOTT  IN  1777. 

sonage.  Even  at  six  years  of  age  he  described  himself 
as  "a  virtuoso";  as  "  one  who  wishes  and  will  know 
everything."  In  physique  he  was  delicate  and  weakly, 
and  for  that  reason  was  sent  to  live  much  with  his 
grandfather's  people  in  the  country.  In  the  outdoor 
life  thus  obtained  for  him,  he  grew  to  have  a  strong  and 


112  LITER  A  TURE. 

vigorous  constitution ;  but  a  lameness  which,  when  very 
young,  he  had  acquired  through  fever,  remained  with 
him  all  his  life.  In  time  he  attended  for  a  short  while 
the  high  school  at  Edinburgh  ;  and  afterward  he  was 
sent  to  a  school  at  Kelso.  But  as  a  student  at  school  he 
won  no  great  reputation.  He  learned  Latin,  but  de- 
clined to  learn  Greek.  For  that  which  interested  him 
he  had  a  surpassing  facility  of  acquisition,  but  he  cared 
little  for  the  merely  technical  parts  of  education.  His 
memory  was  astonishingly  retentive  and  accurate ;  while 
it  rejected  unconsciously  that  which  was  not  akin  to  his 
sympathies  and  tastes,  it  seemed  to  retain  everything 
else.  He  was  a  great  favorite  with  his  companions 
and  fellow-students  because  of  his  gifts  as  a  story-teller. 
Even  as  a  child  he  had  held  audiences  of  his  elders  spell- 
bound while  he  narrated  or  declaimed  tales  of  border 
exploit  and  daring.  His  mind  soon  became  a  vast 
storehouse  of  striking  incident  and  picturesque  detail. 
The  past  —  the  past  of  his  sympathies  and  affections  — 
the  past  of  chivalry  and  romance  —  was  to  him  as  the 
present.  To  feed  this  passion  he  spared  himself  no 
labor  or  inconvenience.  He  read  everything  he  could 
find  that  would  serve  to  illuminate,  even  ever  so  little, 
the  field  of  his  research.  But  his  great  resource  was 
the  traditionary  lore  of  the  living  inhabitants  of  those 
districts  whose  history  had  been  eventful.  To  get  pos- 
session of  this,  he  travelled  about  unwearyingly,  on  foot, 
in  all  the  Scottish  lowlands  and  border  country,  visiting 
every  scene  which  he  knew  to  be  associated  with  inter- 
esting legend  or  historic  incident,  and  talking  with  the 
people  to  whom  these  legends  and  incidents  were  mat- 
ters of  common  belief  and  knowledge.  He  was  a  wel- 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT.  113 

come  intruder  wherever  he  went  ;  for  he  had  a  special 
faculty  for  winning  the  favor  and  good- will  of  strangers, 
especially  of  the  common  people,  whose  store  of  tradi- 
tionary lore  is  always  greatest,  and  who  therefore,  per- 
haps unconsciously,  felt  a  fellow-feeling  with  him  in  his 
pursuit. 

These  "  raids  into  Liddesdale,"  as  he  called  them, 
and  excursions  into  other  districts,  constituted  a  favorite 
relaxation  with  Scott,  not  only  all  through  his  school 
and  college  days,  but  afterward  while  he  was  a  student- 
at-law  and  while  he  practised  at  the  bar.  His  father 
was  much  provoked  at  this  apparent  lack  of  practicality 
in  his  son's  conduct,  and  reproached  him  with  wasting 
his  time  at  "  peddling,"  instead  of  taking  seriously  to 
his  profession.  Once  when  Scott  lamented  in  his 
father's  hearing  his  inability  to  play  the  flute,  and  so 
more  easily  win  his  way  among  the  people  in  his  tramps 
by  pleasing  them  with  his  flute-playing,  as  Goldsmith  is 
said  to  have  done  in  his  tour  of  Europe,  his  father  indig- 
nantly predicted  as  to  his  future :  "  I  greatly  doubt, 
sir,  you  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel  scrape- 
gut."  Scott's  musical  ability,  however,  was  exceedingly 
deficient,  and  he  could  not  hope  to  reduce  expenses  by 
its  aid  ;  but  with  his  inexhaustible  fund  of  droll  and 
humorous  anecdote  and  romantic  tale  and  legend,  and 
with  his  marvellous  gift  as  a  narrator,  he  was  a  boon 
companion  everywhere ;  and  whether  among  the  rude 
but  hearty  dalesmen  of  the  lowland  hill  country,  or  the 
most  fastidious  coteries  of  the  Edinburgh  bar,  he  was 
equally  at  home  and  equally  the  choicest  of  good  spirits. 

Scott's  pursuit  of  antiquarian  information  and  roman- 
tic incident  and  legend  early  became  the  main  business 


114  LITERATURE. 

of  his  life.  After  his  call  to  the  bar  (in  1792)  he  for 
some  time  applied  himself  steadily  to  the  practice  of  his 
profession  ;  but  he  did  so  as  a  means  to  an  end.  His 
object  seems  to  have  been  the  securing  of  some  quasi- 
legal  official  position  in  which  he  could  be  sure  of  an 
income  and  yet  have  leisure  enough  for  his  private  avo- 
cation. In  this  he  was  successful.  In  1 799  he  obtained 
the  office  of  sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  with  a  salary  of  .£300 
a  year  and  not  very  onerous  duties.  In  1806  he  under- 
took the  work  of  clerk  of  the  Court  of  Session.  The 
duties  of  this  position  were  considerable,  especially  for 
six  months  of  the  year,  when  the  court  was  sitting.  But 
they  still  left  him  a  fair  share  of  time  for  his  private 
pursuits.  For  six  years  he  discharged  the  duties  of  the 
office  without  remuneration ;  but  in  1812  he  was  able  to 
enter  upon  its  emoluments,  and  these  afforded  him  a 
further  income  of  .£1,300  a  year.  His  joint  income 
from  his  two  offices  was  thus  .£1,600  a  year  ;  and  this, 
added  to  what  he  gained  from  his  literary  work  (it  is 
estimated  that  during  his  lifetime  he  earned  not  less 
than  £140,000  by  his  pen),  made  his  total  income  from 
1812  forward  (he  was  then  but  forty-one  years  old)  not 
merely  sufficient  but  ample,  even  for  the  scale  of  living 
he  had  adopted,  which,  it  must  be  said,  as  prosperity 
increased  with  him,  became  more  and  more  expensive, 
until  at  last,  through  munificence  rather  than  prodigal- 
ity, it  certainly  was  excessive.  But  the  unfortunate 
commercial  speculations  into  which,  beginning  in  1805, 
he  had  entered,  resulted,  in  1826,  when  he  was  fifty- five 
years  of  age  and  youthful  freshness  and  energy  were  but 
a  memory  with  him,  in  his  being  a  ruined  man,  pros- 
trated with  a  debt  of  over  .£150,000. 


SIX    WALTER   SCOTT.  115 

^ 

Scott's  speculative  ventures  are  a  sadly  distressing 

feature  in  an  otherwise  magnificently  successful  career. 
The  sanguineness  of  disposition  and  simplicity  of  con- 
duct he  manifested  in  them  are  in  strange  contrast  with 
the  strong  common  sense  with  which  he  endows  many 


LADY  SCOTT. 

of  his  fictitious  characters.  They  gave  to  his  life,  how- 
ever, an  element  of  pathos  which  otherwise  it  had  lacked  ; 
and  when  the  culminating  blow  came,  and  he  set  all  the 
resources  of  his  intellect  and  his  unconquerable  will  to 
undo  the  effects  of  it,  the  pathos  became  sublime ;  and 
the  last  years  of  the  great  novelist's  life,  when,  amid 


Il6  LITERATURE. 

bodily  distresses,  domestic  bereavement,  and  consciously 
fast-failing  mental  powers,  he  worked  night  and  day 
with  unceasing  energy  to  pay  off  the  claims  against  him 
and  redeem  his  commercial  honor,  were,  in  moral  gran- 
deur, the  noblest  of  them  all. 

There  is  also  an  element  of  pathos  in  Scott's  domestic 
life.  He  early  gave  his  heart  to  a  young  lady  of  beauty 
and  social  position,  who,  for  a  time  at  least,  seemed 
to  requite  his  affection  by  bestowing  hers  upon  him  in 
return.  For  six  years  he  indulged  the  hope  of  marrying 
her ;  but  in  the  end  she  accepted  another  suitor,  and,  as 
it  would  seem,  somewhat  suddenly  so.  Scott  never  for- 
got, nor  quite  forgave,  the  wound  thus  inflicted  upon 
his  deepest,  his  most  passionate  feelings ;  for  his  was  a 
strong  nature.  His  pride,  however,  carried  him  over 
the  crisis;  and  within  a  year  he  married  (in  1798)  a 
Mile.  Charpentier,  the  daughter  of  a  French  gentle- 
woman, a  royalist,  then  finding  an  asylum  in  Britain. 
This  young  lady  was  also  a  beauty  and  of  good  social 
position,  and  she  had  besides  an  income  of  her  own. 
But  though  she  loved  her  husband,  and  made  him  a 
good  wife,  she  was  no  mate  for  him,  either  in  depth  of 
character  or  in  intellectual  sympathies ;  and,  on  Scott's 
part  at  least,  there  could  not  help  but  be  a  sense  of  some- 
thing amiss  in  the  union,  although  it  is  not  known  that 
he  ever  so  expressed  it. 

Scott's  first  serious  venture  into  literature  was  his 
collection  of  old  Scottish  ballads,  with  notes,  introduc- 
tion, illustrations,  etc.,  and  some  new  ballads  of  his 
own,  entitled  "The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border." 
This  publication  (issued  in  1802,  when  he  was  thirty- 
one  years  of  age)  was  exceedingly  successful,  and  at 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT.  HJ 

once  gained  for  him  a  high  literary  name.  Some  of  his 
own  contributions  to  the  ballads  of  the  volumes  were 
among  the  very  finest  poems  he  ever  wrote.  In  1805 
appeared  his  first  great  poem,  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel."  This  composition,  a  romance  in  verse,  was 
the  first  realization  of  Scott's  special  genius,  the  power 
of  portraying  romantic  incident  and  character ;  and 
though  "  The  Lay  "  was  a  somewhat  less  perfect  mani- 
festation of  this  genius  than  some  of  his  later  poems, 
as  these  again  were  less  perfect  manifestations  of  it 
than  were  afterward  his  brilliant  prose  romances,  it  was, 
nevertheless,  a  great  and  notable  production,  and  imme- 
diately placed  its  author  in  the  very  front  rank  of  Brit- 
ish poets.  "The  Lay,"  too,  had  the  merit  not  only  of 
excellence  but  of  novelty.  It  constituted  a  distinct  ac- 
cession to  the  realm  of  literature.  It  was  indeed  an 
excursion  into  a  field  of  poetic  composition  hitherto 
utterly  un-trod.  In  1808  appeared  "  Marmion,"  Scott's 
greatest  poem,  and  one  of  the  workl's  great  literary 
masterpieces.  In  1810  "Marmion"  was  followed  by 
"  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  Scott's  most  popular  poem ; 
a  composition,  however,  in  which  the  poetic  treatment 
of  the  thema  is  less  striking  than  the  development  of 
its  narrative  interest.  In  1813  followed  "  Rokeby,"  and 
in  1815  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  poems  in  which,  in  a 
still  more  marked  degree  than  in  "The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  the  interest  depends  less  upon  poetic  power  and 
feeling  than  upon  mere  dramatic  narration. 

But  Scott  had  by  this  time  discovered  that  vein  in 
his  genius  from  which  its  richest  treasures  were  to  be 
extracted.  In  1805  he  had  begun  a  prose  romance  en- 
titled "Waverley,"  which,  however,  he  had  laid  aside 


I  1 8  LITER  A  TURE. 

unfinished  and  forgotten.  In  the  summer  of  1814  he 
chanced  upon  the  unfinished  manuscript  again,  and  at 
once  he  set  at  work  to  complete  it.  This  he  did  with 
.almost  incredible  speed,  for  he  wrote  at  least  two-thirds 
of  the  story  in  less  than  three  weeks.  "  Waverley  "  was 
published  anonymously,  but  it  took  the  world  by  storm. 
It  was  followed  early  in  1815  by  "  Guy  Mannering," 
and  in  1816  by  "  The  Antiquary  "  and  "  Old  Mortality," 
the  first  and  second  being  among  his  very  best  works, 
and  the  third  perhaps  the  very  best  of  all.  In  1817, 
although  suffering  from  an  exceedingly  painful  illness  of 
the  stomach,  he  turned  out  "  Rob  Roy "  and  "  The 
Heart  of  Midlothian,"  each  an  immortal  production. 
And  so  the  stream  flowed  on.  Much  of  his  best  work 
was  dictated  to  amanuenses  amid  fits  of  suffering  so 
acute  that  his  assistants  would  urge  him  to  desist ;  but 
the  unconquerable  will  never  faltered,  even  for  an  in- 
stant. "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  "The  Legend 
of  Montrose,"  and  "  Ivanhoe,"  the  first  the  most  pa- 
thetic, the  last  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  the  novels, 
were  all  produced  in  this  way.  Then  followed  "  The 
Monastery  "  and  "  The  Abbot,"  the  former  thought  by 
some  a  failure,  the  latter,  which  is  a  supplement  to  it, 
adjudged  by  every  one  to  be  a  triumphantly  redeeming 
success.  Then,  within  three  years,  were  produced 
"  Kenilworth,"  his  great  historical  romance,  "The  Pi- 
rate," "The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,"  -noted  for  its  dra- 
matic characterization  of  King  James  I,  —  "  Peveril  of 
the  Peak,"  "  Quentin  Durward;"  "St.  Ronan's  Well," 
and  "  Redgauntlet,"  the  two  latter  thought  by  many 
critics  to  be  among  the  poorest  of  the  series.  "  St. 
Ronan's  Well,"  however,  though  severely  criticised  and 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT.  I  19 

much  condemned,  has  its  defenders,  and  with  many 
readers  of  the  Waverley  novels  it  ranks  as  the  very  best. 

A  curious  circumstance  connected  with  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Waverley  novels  (as  these  romances  are 
always  termed)  was  their  anonymity ;  for  Scott  chose 
to  continue  throughout  the  plan  of  concealing  his  name 
which  he  had  adopted  at  the  beginning.  The  author  of 
the  novels  was  familiarly  spoken  of  as  "  The  Great  Un- 
known "  ;  and  who  he  was  remained  for  some  years  a 
secret  known  only  to  a  few.  Even  after  his  identity 
with  the  author  of  "  Waverley "  was  an  open  secret, 
Scott  himself  and  all  of  Scott's  friends  took  the  greatest 
pains  to  maintain  the  fiction  that  the  two  were  not  the 
same ;  and  sometimes  their  actions  led  to  what  seemed 
to  be  the  most  authoritative  denial  of  the  truth.  He 
himself  reviewed  the  novels  in  the  Quarterly  Review. 
Nor  did  he  openly  acknowledge  his  responsibility  for 
any  of  the  first  twenty-three  novels  which  he  wrote 
until  about  the  end  of  his  career. 

What  intensified  the  mystery  as  to  the  authorship  of 
these  novels  was  the  fact  that,  though  many  unmistak- 
able signs  pointed  to  Scott  as  their  author,  his  well- 
known  most  laborious  industry  and  marvellous  produc- 
tivity in  other  branches  of  literature  seemed  utterly  to 
preclude  the  possibility  of  it.  To  mention  only  the 
names  of  his  many  literary  productions  outside  of 
poetry  and  romance  would  be  tedious  ;  but  as  a  single 
instance  of  his  laborious  activity  his  "  Dryden  "  may  be 
cited.  This  was  a  new'  edition  of  Dryden's  works  in 
eighteen  volumes,  accompanied  by  a  "  Life,"-— a  piece 
of  work  that  is  considered  by  competent  judges  to  be 
quite  sufficient  to  have  employed  the  entire  energies  of 


1 2  O  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

one  man  for  at  least  eight  years  !  And  yet  his  "  Dry- 
den  "  was  only  a  fraction  of  his  other  work  during  the 
years  he  was  turning  out  the  Waverleys. 

Scott  was  undoubtedly  the  most  brilliantly  successful 
literary  worker  the  world  has  ever  known.  Some  may 
perhaps  have  equalled  him  in  money  earnings,  though 
this  is  scarcely  probable.  Some  may  perhaps  have  won 
a  higher  social  recognition.  But,  taken  all  in  all,  Scott's 
success  is  unparalleled.  His  money  earnings  in  his  own 
lifetime  approximated  three-quarters  of  a  million  of  dol- 
lars. He  was  the  most  popular,  the  most  highly  es- 
teemed, the  most  sought-after  author  of  his  time.  He 
had  won  undying  fame  in  two  great  departments  of  lit- 
erature, —  poetry  and  prose  romance ;  while  as  a  his- 
torian, an  antiquarian,  a  biographer,  an  editor,  and  a 
critic,  his  performances  were  ranked  with  the  very  best. 
He  held  two  offices  of  high  social  rank  and  ample  emolu- 
ments ;  and  his  discharge  of  the  duties  involved  in  them 
was  so  faithfully  methodical  and  painstaking  that,  far 
from  diminishing  the  credit  of  his  literary  career,  they 
very  much  enhanced  it.  He  had  bought  a  fine  estate  in 
his  favorite  Liddesdale,  and  had  gratified  his  natural  taste 
by  planting  it  with  forests,  whose  growth  he  watched 
with  loving  solicitude,  until  his  domain  resembled  that  of 
some  mediaeval  baron.  He  had  built  upon  it  a  mansion, 
"  Abbotsford,"  a  "  romance  in  stone  and  mortar,"  which 
was  a  place  of  pilgrimage  to  the  literati  of  all  nations, 
and  where  he  indulged  in  a  hospitality  that  was  almost 
boundless.  He  had  been  made  a  baronet  at  the  hands 
of  his  king  ;  and  the  honor  was  bestowed  upon  him  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  be  peculiarly  significant  of  the 
esteem  in  which  he  was  held,  not  only  by  the  king,  but 


ABBOTSFORD,  FROM  THE  SOUTHEAST. 


THE  ENTRANCE  HALL,  ABBOTSFORD. 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 


123 


by  that  social  class  of  which  the  king  is  the  culminating 
representative.  His  character  was  known  to  be  spotless  ; 
his  domestic  life  a  happy  one.  His  wife  and  children 
loved  him  ;  his  friends  were  devoted  to  him  ;  the  people 
on  his  estate  almost  passionately  adored  him  ;  while  the 
general  public  regarded  him  with  a  feeling  that  no  other 
literary  man  has  ever  been  the  object  of;  for  with  the 
honor  that  was  bestowed  upon  him  for  the  merit  of  his 
acknowledged  literary  work,  and  especially  of  the  work 
which  in  spite  of  contrary  appearances  every  one  be- 
lieved to  be  his,  because  of  the  impossibility  of  its  being 
any  other's,  there  was  mixed  a  strange  half-unbelief  in 
the  possibility  of  this  work  being  his  at  all !  So  that, 
while  he  was  universally  regarded  as  being  the  first 
literary  man  of  his  time,  there  was  a  mystery  about  him 
which  enhanced  his  reputation  to  a  degree  now  almost 
inconceivable. 

A  success  so  brilliant  as  Scott's  seemed  to  be,  had  it 
had  no  relief  from  the  sadder  aspects  of  life,  would  have 
dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  world  to  the  real  intrinsic  gran- 
deur of  his  character,  if,  indeed,  that  character  itself  had 
not  succumbed  to  the  deteriorating  influences  of  so 
much  good  fortune.  But,  as  before  intimated,  Scott's 
life  had  aspects  sad  enough  ;  and  much  of  his  good  for- 
tune came  to  a  tragical  and  crushing  end.  In  1805  he 
had  entered  into  a  secret  partnership  in  a  printing  busi- 
ness with  James  Ballantyne,  an  old  Kelso  schoolfellow. 
In  1809  he  entered  into  a  partnership,  also  a  secret  one, 
with  John  Ballantyne,  a  brother  of  James,  in  a  publish- 
ing and  bookselling  business.  Neither  of  these  men 
was  fit  to  be  intrusted  with  the  management  of  such  a 
large  enterprise  as  Scott  contrived  by  his  literary  efforts 


124  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

and  literary  connections  to  put  into  their  hands  ;  and  of 
the  two  John  Ballantyne,  who  had  the  more  important 
end  to  look  after,  was  by  far  the  more  incompetent. 
Scott's  own  judgment  in  such  business  matters  as  he 
passed  opinion  upon  (which,  however,  were  not  many) 
seems  to  have  been  woefully  deficient  in  prudence  and 
common  sense.  The  ventures  of  the  two  firms  were 
huge  and  exceedingly  unprofitable.  Time  and  time 
again  financial  ruin  was  averted  only  by  Scott  coming  to 
the  rescue  with  money,  or  with  books  that  sold  well  with 
the  public.  Finally  the  publishing  house  was  wound 
up.  But  another  house,  that  of  Constable  &  Co.,  who 
now  desired  to  be  Scott's  publishers,  became  heavily 
burdened  by  the  acquisition  of  the  large  unsalable  stocks 
of  the  late  publishing  firm  ;  and  the  printing  house  was 
likewise  heavily  burdened  by  assuming  its  financial  obli- 
gations. Scott  himself  contributed  to  the  causes  of  dis- 
aster by  drawing  upon  his  new  publishers  for  immense 
sums  of  money  in  advance  for  works  still  to  be  written. 
Finally,  in  the  year  1825,  a  year  of  financial  crises  all 
over  the  empire,  the  credit  of  the  house  of  Constable  & 
Co.  became  impaired.  Early  in  January,  1826,  it  sus- 
pended payment.  Its  utter  collapse  immediately  fol- 
lowed, as  also  that  of  the  printing  house  of  James  Bal- 
lantyne &  Co.,  to  which  the  Constable  firm  was  greatly 
indebted.  Not  only  had  Scott  to  retire  all  the  bills  that 
he  had  drawn  upon  Constable  &  Co.  for  unwritten 
works,  but  he  had  to  assume  the  debts  of  the  Ballan- 
tyne printing  house,  which  alone  amounted  to  £>i  17,000. 
The  total  indebtedness  thus  suddenly  thrown  upon  him 
amounted  to  no  less  than  ,£150,000. 

It  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  for  Scott  to  have 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 


125 


compromised  with  his  creditors,  but  his  pride  made  such 
a  recourse  abhorrent  to  him.  "  God  granting  me  time 
and  health,"  he  said,  "  I  will  pay  every  penny."  Then 
began  the  grandest  part  of  Scott's  career,  though  an  in- 
finitely sad  part.  He  sat  down  to  work  off  this  enormous 
debt  by  his  pen  alone.  Troubles  came  upon  him  with 
unrelenting  haste.  His  wife,  of  whose  delicate  beauty 
and  fragile  frame  he  had  ever  been  exceedingly  tender, 
sickened  and  died.  His  own  health  broke.  Rheumatism 
attacked  him,  and  crippled  his  hands  so  that  he  could  not 
hold  a  pen.  He  was  prostrated  by  paralytic  seizures. 
Worse  than  all,  his  brain  gave  way.  He  is  said  to  have 
worked  during  much  of  this  time  with  little  more  than 
half  a  brain.  He  became  a  victim  to  aphasia.  Finally 
his  imaginative  faculties  grew  inert.  As  he  himself  de- 
scribed it,  "  The  magician's  wand  had  broken." 

It  is  marvellous,  however,  what  Scott  accomplished  in 
these  five  years  of  bodily  and  mental  paralysis.  In  three 
months  after  the  failure  he  had  finished  ''Woodstock," 
the  last  of  his  great  novels,  though  not,  of  course,  one 
of  the  very  best.  For  this  he  received  ^8,228.  In  two 
years  he  had  completed  his  great  historical  work,  his 
"  Life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  for  which  he  received 
;£ 1 8,000.  By  January,  1828,  he  had  paid  off  ,£40,000 
of  his  debts.  It  is  estimated  that  in  less  than  six  years 
more,  had  his  health  been  spared  to  him,  he  would  have 
discharged  every  debt  he  owed.  It  is  marvellous,  too, 
to  realize  that  some  of  his  very  best  work  (though  it  was 
of  minor  character)  was  produced  during  this  time  of 
physical  and  mental  impairment.  Also  during  these 
years  several  excellent  novels  were  added  to  his  list,  and 
some  of  his  most  popular  short  historical  tales  were 


126  LITERATURE. 

written.  But,  alas,  his  mental  powers  were  failing  fast, 
undoubtedly  because  of  the  immense  strain  to  which  he 
was  subjecting  them.  In  1830  there  was  a  very  serious 
seizure.  The  end  was  bound  to  come  soon.  Two  novels 
that  he  completed  in  the  early  part  of  1831,  "Count 
Robert  of  Paris"  and  "  Castle  Dangerous,"  warned  his 
friends  that  he  should  be  persuaded  to  desist.  Finally  a 
strange  illusion  fortunately  possessed  him.  He  fancied 
that  all  his  debts  were  paid,  and  that  he  was  once  more 
"a  free  man,"  as  he  put  it.  He  then  accepted  an  offer, 
which  the  government  had  made  to  his  physicians,  to 
place  a  vessel  of  the  navy  at  his  disposal ;  and  he  spent 
some  months  cruising  about  in  the  Mediterranean. 
While  many  of  his  faculties  were  gone,  many  remained 
as  bright  as  ever ;  and  the  year  had  much  enjoyment  for 
him.  But  the  death  of  Goethe  in  March  (1832),  whom 
he  had  hoped  to  visit  at  Weimar,  greatly  depressed  him. 
He  desired  to  hasten  home.  In  June  he  was  in  London, 
a  dying  man.  With  great  difficulty  he  was  got  to  his 
beloved  Abbotsford,  where  he  passionately  longed  to  be. 
One  day  he  fancied  he  could  write  again  ;  but  when  he 
realized  that  the  fingers  could  not  hold  the  pen  in  their 
clasp  he  sank  back  in  his  chair  disheartened.  "  Get  me 
to  bed,"  said  he;  "that  is  the  only  place."  And  in  his 
bed  he  died,  a  few  days  later —  Sept.  21,  1832. 

Though  Scott's  belief  that  his  debts  were  paid  was  an 
illusion,  it  was  not  very  far  from  the  truth.  The  value 
of  his  copyrights  was  very  great.  In  1833,  by  an  ar- 
rangement with  his  publisher,  his  general  creditors  were 
paid  in  full ;  and  in  1847,  fifteen  years  after  his  death, 
the  estate  of  Abbotsford  was  finally  relieved  of  all  in- 
cumbrance  upon  it,  and  an  outstanding  bond  of  ,£10,000, 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT.  12  J 

given  to  Constable  to  avert  disaster  some  time  betore  the 
ultimate  failure,  was  also  discharged.  Thus,  though  he 
was  not  granted  the  health  and  time  he  prayed  for,  the 
object  that  he  had  set  himself  so  resolutely  to  effect  was 
finally  accomplished,  and  "  every  penny  "  of  his  debt  was 
paid. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT— A  TEN-MINUTE  TALK. 

By  LEWIS  EDWARD  GATES,  A.B., 

Professor  of  English,  Harvard  University. 


WHAT  value  have  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels  for  men 
and  women  of  to-day  ?  Is  Scott  still  worth  reading  in 
this  age,  when  science  has  taught  us  the  importance  of 
truth  in  fiction,  and  when  novelists  analyze  action  and 
motive,  and  explain  and  illustrate  character  with  a 
thoroughness  and  delicate  suggestiveness  that  Scott's 
"big  bow-wow  "  style  never  attains  to? 

In  point  of  fact,  it  is  the  very  lack  of  subtlety  in  Scott, 
that  makes  him  still  eminently  worth  while.  He  opens 
to  us  a  world  where  we  may  rest  for  a  breathing  space 
from  the  intellectual  worry,  the  nervous  wear  and  tear, 
and  the  over-refining  casuistry  of  modern  life.  In  Scott's 
world  the  brave  men  and  the  fair  women  and  the  treach- 
erous villains  all  know  from  the  first  with  refreshing 
certainty  what  they  want,  and  they  set  about  securing 
this  with  delightful  courage  and  single-heartedness. 
Life  as  Scott  portrays  it  has  freedom,  directness,  and 
simplicity.  It  may,  of  course,  be  urged  that  this  simpli- 
fication of  human  nature  tends  to  reduce  life  to  a  strug- 
gle among  a  few  primitive  instincts  ;  that  love,  hate, 
greed  for  power,  jealousy,  and  two  or  three  more  of  the 
good  old  elementary  virtues  and  vices  almost  monopolize 
our  attention.  With  this  suggestion  in  mind  it  is  easy 

128 


SCOTT:  A    TEN-MINUTE    TALK.  129 

to   understand   the   force   of   Thomas   Love  Peacock's 
parody  on  Scott's  war  songs  :  — 

"  The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 

But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter. 
We  therefore  deem  it  meeter 

To  carry  off  the  latter. 
We  made  an  expedition ; 

We  met  a  host  and  quelled  it ; 
We  forced  a  strong  position 

And  killed  the  men  who  held  it." 

Scott's  novels  of  adventure  seem  pretty  nearly  made 
up  of  this  instinctive  pursuit  of  obvious  goods.  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek's  formula  for  life  —  it  "  consists  of 
eating  and  drinking  "  —  will  prove  fairly  true  for  the  life 
Scott  shows  us,  provided  we  add  righting  and  love-mak- 
ing. Yet,  with  what  splendid  pageantry  this  life  is  put 
before  us !  How  magnificent  a  drama  is  set  in  motion 
by  the  action  of  these  primitive  instincts  !  How  the 
natural  man  within  us  rejoices  in  the  gorgeous  adequacy 
with  which  these  simple  functions  are  fulfilled!  It  is 
precisely  for  this  reason  that  Scott  is  a  fine  tonic,  and 
sends  the  blood  more  courageously  through  our  veins. 
After  reading  him  we  feel  that  life  is  easier,  simpler, 
better  worth  while,  a  braver  and  finer  affair  than  we 
have  been  wont  to  believe  it.  To  read  and  enjoy  Scott 
is  to  renew  and  preserve  our  naivetf,  and,  after  all, 
naiveti  is  only  another  name  for  immortality.  Your 
only  utterly  disillusioned  man  is  your  corpse. 

Then  again,  as  a  pleasant  and  effective  means  of  com- 
ing into  close  imaginative  touch  with  the  past  of  our 
race,  Scott's  novels  are  in  many  respects  still  unrivalled. 
Scott  was  one  of  the  greatest  antiquarians  of  his  day. 


130  LITERATURE. 

He  knew  with  the  utmost  minuteness  and  accuracy  the 
manners  and  customs  of  feudal  England,  the  character- 
istics of  the  life  of  each  age  from  Saxon  times  down 
through  the  seventeenth  century.  All  this  knowledge 
he  offers  us  in  his  novels,  vitalized  by  his  imagination, 
and  made  real  by  human  sympathy.  He  has  seen  and 
felt  this  life  more  vividly  and  intensely  than  many  of  us 
see  and  feel  the  life  that  strikes  continuously  on  our 
senses  from  day  to  day.  Century  after  century  he  re- 
constructs for  us  this  life  of  the  past  —  reconstructs  it 
perhaps  with  illusory  beauty,  with  some  meretricious 
decoration,  with  much  disregard  of  its  actual  evils  and 
ennuis.  But,  at  any  rate,  he  makes  us  aware  of  its  large 
contours,  of  its  most  salient  features,  of  its  most  signifi- 
cant qualities.  Thus  he  enlarges  our  horizon  and  unites 
us  vitally  with  the  past  of  our  race.  We  come  to  see 
ourselves  as  only  one  in  a  long  series  of  generations. 
We  escape  from  the  egoism  of  the  present,  detach  our- 
selves a  bit  from  our  own  prejudices,  realize  whence  we 
have  come,  see  ourselves  in  perspective.  To  his  own 
age  Scott's  discovery  and  reunification  of  the  past  was 
one  of  his  most  noteworthy  services.  Even  to-day,  after 
historical  research  has  made  such  astonishing  progress, 
Scott's  novels  are  among  the  most  prevailingly  delight- 
ful and  suggestive  revealers  of  the  past. 

Finally,  to  know  Scott's  writings  well  is  to  be  made 
free  of  a  singularly  lovable  and  admirable  nature.  The 
charm  of  Scott's  personality  was  irresistible.  It  imposed 
itself  even  on  animals.  Dogs  adored  him  ;  a  small  pig 
used  to  follow  him  with  romantic  affection  when  he  went 
for  his  walks  on  the  Abbotsford  estate.  Among  peasants, 
as  among  literary  and  society  notabilities,  he  was  the 


SCOTT:   A    TEN-MINUTE    TALK.  131 

most  welcome  of  guests.  His  geniality,  his  humor,  his 
frank,  hearty  manliness,  his  generosity,  his  readiness  to 
amuse  and  to  be  amused,  his  endless  store  of  entertain- 
ing anecdote,  his  tact  and  his  union  of  sympathy  with 
originality,  made  him  the  best  of  companions  for  an  hour 
or  for  a  lifetime.  His  friendships  were  generous  and 
enduring.  All  these  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  are  in 
one  way  or  another  dimly  felt  even  to-day  as  a  reader 
runs  through  Scott's  stories.  We  are  taken  a  bit  into 
the  confidence  of  a  very  noble  nature  —  of  a  man  of  large 
mind,  sane  instincts,  enduring  courage,  rich  sympathy 
and  far-ranging  experience.  We  feel  that  Scott  has 
lived  widely  and  diversely,  and  found  life  good ;  we  feel 
that  he  has  suffered  deeply  and  yet  has  found  in  human 
comradeship  something  that  atones.  We  are  insensibly 
led  to  an  imitation  of  his  frank,  courageous  acceptance 
of  life  —  of  this  life  of  ours  that  mixes  so  quaintly  its 
good  and  its  evil. 

For  all  these  reasons,  then,  Scott  remains  —  despite 
our  modernity,  despite  our  increase  in  subtlety  and  accom- 
plishment and  sophistication  —  indeed,  largely  because 
of  these  very  characteristics  of  the  life  of  to-day  —  a 
permanent  source  of  culture  and  delight. 


SCOTT'S  POETRY. 


IN  the  maturity  of  his  powers  he  wrote  "  The  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel,"  which  was  received  with  a  rapture 
of  enthusiasm.  The  selection  is  a  portrait  of  the  aged 
harper : — 

"  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old. 
His  withered  cheek  and  tresses  gray 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day.  \ 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he 
Who  sung  of  border  chivalry. 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled ; 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead, 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wished  to  be  with  them  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn  ; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caressed, 
High  placed  in  hall  a  welcome  guest, 
He  poured  to  lord  and  lady  gay 
The  unpremeditated  lay. 
Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone  ; 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door, 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear." 
132 


SCOTT'S  POETRY.  133 

The  following  lines  on  Melrose  Abbey,  from  the  same 
poem,  show  Scott's  descriptive  powers  at  their  best :  — 

"  If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild  but  to  flout  the  ruins  gray, 


MELROSE  ABBEY  FROM  THE  SOUTHEAST. 


When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower ; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seemed  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imag'ry, 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 


1 3  4  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave  ; 
Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 
Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile, 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair." 


Scott  made  the  mountains  and  lakes  of  Scotland  fa- 
mous throughout  the  world.  The  following  lines,  de- 
scribing Loch  Katrine,  are  selected  from  "  The  Lady  of 
the  Lake"  :  — 

"  And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 
No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 
Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 
A  far-projecting  precipice. 


THE  SILVER  STRAND,  LOCH  KATRINE. 


SCOTT'S  POETRY. 


135 


THE  TROSACHS. 


The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made  ; 
>The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid  ; 
And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 
Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 
One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolPd, 
In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay, 
With  promontory,  creek  and  bay, 


And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light, 

And  mountains  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south  huge  Benvenue 

Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurl'd, 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ; 


136  LITERATURE. 

A  wildering  forest  feather'd  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar : 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare." 

This  is  the  most  popular  of  Scott's  poems.  It  is 
interesting  in  story  and  plot,  chivalric  in  type,  and  richly 
picturesque.  Its  publication  carried  Scott's  fame  as  a 


ROSLIN'S  GLEN. 

poet  to  its  most  brilliant  height.     The  following  stanza 
is  from  the  boat  song  :  — 

"  Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green  pine1. 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line  ! 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


SCOTT'S  POETRY.  139 

Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gaily  to  bourgeon  and  broadly  to  grow ; 

While  every  highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
'  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! '" 

The  ruins  of  Roslin  Castle,  the  baronial  residence 
of  the  ancient  family  of  St.  Clair,  located  near  a  ro- 
mantic and  woody  dell,  are  referred  to  in  the  "  Gray 
Brother"  :- 

"  Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove 

And  Roslin's  rocky  glen, 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love, 
And  classic  Hawthornden." 


ABBOTSFORD :  SCOTT'S  HOME. 


"  I  understand  his  romances  the  better  for  having  seen  his  house,  and 
his  house  the  better  for  having  read  his  romances." — NATHANIEL  HAW- 
THORNE. 

ABBOTSFORD  is  located  about  three  miles  west  of  Mel- 
rose,  in  the  county  of  Roxburgh,  Scotland.  Before  the 
estate  became,  in  1 8 1 1 ,  the  property  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 


MAP  OF  COUNTRY  ABOUT  EDINBURGH. 

the  site  of  the  house  and  grounds  formed  a  small  farm 
known  by  the  name  of  Clarty  Hole.  The  new  name 
was  the  invention  of  the  poet,  who  loved  thus  to  connect 
himself  with  the  days  when  Melrose  abbots  passed  over 

the  fords  of  the  River  Tweed. 

140 


ABBOTSFORD:    SCOTT'S  HOME.  141 

On  a  sloping  bank  overhanging  the  river,  with  the 
Selkirk  hills  behind,  Scott  built  at  first  a  small  villa,  now 
the  western  wing  of  the  castle.  Afterward,  as  his  income 
increased,  he  added  the  remaining  portions  of  the  build- 
ing, on  no  uniform  plan,  but  with  the  desire  of  combining 
in  it  some  of  the  features  of  those  ancient  works  of  Scot- 
tish architecture  which  he  most  venerated.  The  result 
is  a  singularly  picturesque  and  irregular  pile,  such  an  one 
as  nobody  but  Scott  would  have  thought  of  erecting,  yet 
eminently  imposing  in  its  general  effect,  and  in  most  of 
its  details  full  of  historic  interest  and  beauty. 

In  a  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Carpenter,  Scott 
describes  his  new  property,  adding  :  — 

"  I  intend  building  a  small  cottage  here  for  my  summer  abode, 
being  obliged  by  law,  as  well  as  by  inclination,  to  make  this 
country  my  residence  for  some  months  of  every  year.  This  is  the 
greatest  incident  which  has  lately  taken  place  in  our  domestic 
concerns,  and  I  assure  you  we  are  not  a  little  proud  of  being  greeted 
as  laird  and  lady  of  Abbots  ford" 

The  greatest  practical  romance  of  Scott's  life  was  the 
improvement  of  the  almost  sterile  soil  and  the  construc- 
tion of  the  quaint,  picturesque  edifice,  as  much  castle  as 
mansion,  of  Abbotsford.  The  most  fascinating  scheme 
among  all  the  wild  dreams  of  his  fancy,  it  has  been  said, 
was  to  purchase  lands  ;  to  raise  himself  a  fairy  castle ; 
to  become,  not  the  minstrel  of  a  lord  as  were  many  of 
those  of  old,  but  a  minstrel-lord  himself.  The  practical 
romance  grew.  On  the  banks  of  the  Tweed  began  to  rise 
the  fairy  castle,  quaint  and  beautiful.  Lands  were  added 
to  lands  ;  over  hill  and  dale  spread  the  dark  embossment 
of  future  woods  ;  Abbotsford  was  spoken  of  far  and  wide. 


142  LI  TERA  TURE. 

If  you  expect  a  great  castle  you  will  be  disappointed. 
It  is  described  as  resembling  an  old  French  chateau, 
with  its  miniature  towers  and  small  windows  grafted 
upon  an  Elizabethan  mansion.  It  occupies  considerable 
ground,  but  is  deficient  in  massiveness  and  loftiness. 
On  a  castellated  gateway  is  hung  an  iron  collar  used 
for  holding  culprits  by  the  neck  brought  from  Thrieve 


\ 
ABBOTSFORD:  THE  GARDEN  FRONT. 

Castle,  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Douglases  in  Galloway. 
The  mansion  shows  portico,  bay  windows  of  painted 
glass,  battlemented  gables  and  turrets.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  carved  work  on  the  corbels  and  escutcheons. 
Through  a  light  screen  of  freestone,  finely  carved  and 
arched,  the  garden  and  greenhouse  may  be  seen.  On 
all  sides,  except  toward  the  river,  the  house  connects 
itself  with  the  garden,  according  to  an  old,  picturesque 


THE  DRAWING-ROOM  AT  ABBOTSFORD. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  ARMORY. 


ABBOTSFORD:   SCOTT'S  HOME. 


fashion.  On  the  right  hand  of  the  portico  is  a  carved 
image  of  Scott's  favorite  dog,  Maida ;  on  the  left,  a 
Gothic  fountain  from  the  old  cross  of  Edinburgh.  A 
square  tower  is  ascended  by  steps  from  the  outside ;  at 
the  other  end  is  a  round  tower  covered  with  ivy.  The 
house  is  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  in 
front,  and  its  walls  abound  in  heraldic  and  other  carvings. 
There  is  a  balcony  ranging  along  the  whole  front,  where 
during  dinner  John  of  Skye,  the  wild  piper,  used  to  strut 
to  and  fro  playing  Scotch  airs. 

The  porch,  upon  which  gigantic  stags'  horns  are  fas- 
tened, opens  into  a  fine  hall,  forty  feet  long  and  twenty 
feet  wide  and  high,  lined  with  dark  oak  wainscot  richly 
carved.  The  ceiling  is  a  series  of  arches,  also  of  carved 
oak,  with  an  armorial  shield  emblazoned  in  colors  and 
metals,  upon  the  centre  of  each  beam.  Around  the 
cornice  are  two  rows  of  escutcheons,  bearing  the  arms 
of  thirty  or  forty  of  the  old  chieftains  of  the  border.  A 
running  inscription  all  around  in  black  letter  reads  as 
follows :  — 

"  These  be  the  coat  arms  of  the  Clannis  and  chief  men  of  name 
\vha  keepit  the  marchys  of  Scotland  in  the  auld  time  for  the 
Kynge.  Trewe  were  they  in  their  tyme,  and  in  their  defense  God 
them  defendit." 

Over  and  round  a  doorway  are  the  shields  of  Scott's 
particular  personal  friends.  The  room  is  crowded  with 
curiosities  —  ancient  armor,  cuirasses  and  eagles  from 
Waterloo,  helmets  and  spurs,  historic  swords,  and  mas- 
sive chairs. 

The  other  show  apartments  are  the  drawing-room, 
dining-room,  breakfast-room,  armory,  library,  and  study. 


146 


LITER  A  TURE. 


Raeburn's  portrait,  showing  Scott  sitting  by  a  ruined 
wall  with  two  dogs,  is  in  the  drawing-room,  as  is  also  a 
portrait  of  Lady  Scott.  Mr.  Hawthorne,  in  describing 
the  latter,  says  it  shows  "  a  brunette,  with  black  hair  and 
eyes,  very  pretty,  warm,  vivacious,  and  un-English." 
The  dining-room,  a  plain,  well-proportioned  apartment, 
contains  a  number  of  historical  portraits.  From  the 
ceiling  hangs  a  large  and  handsome  chandelier,  which 


THE  LIBRARY  AT  ABBOTSFORD. 

had  formerly  adorned  some  stately  palace.  The  armory 
is  crowded  with  curiosities.  The  library,  lighted  by 
windows  looking  out  upon  the  Tweed,  contains  over  fifty 
thousand  volumes  —  many  upon  Scottish  history,  magic, 
and  antiquities. 

In  the  study,  which  really  was  the  author's  workshop, 


ABBOTSFORD:   SCOTT'S  HOME.  147 

there  is  only  a  simple  table,  upon  which  still  remains 
the  massive  silver  inkstand  always  used  by  Scott,  and 
constantly  kept  clear  of  ink-stains.  Scott  was  neat, 
even  methodical,  in  his  habits,  and  eschewed  all  literary 
litter.  He  kept  his  papers  in  most  exact  and  regular 
order,  each  document  duly  inscribed  with  its  date  and 
the  name  of  its  writer  or  subject,  and  tied  with  red 
tape.  He  was  careful,  even  particular,  with  his  books, 
the  majority,  which  he  considered  worth  the  honor  and 
cost,  being  handsomely  bound  and  lettered  ;  and  almost 
every  summer  he  had  a  handy  bookbinder  at  Abbots- 
ford,  who  made  necessary  repairs,  retouching  and  gilding 
and  repasting  the  loosening  title  labels.  When  he  lent 
a  book,  which  was  seldom,  he  took  a  piece  of  wood  the 
size  of  the  volume,  pasted  on  one  of  the  edges  a  slip  of 
paper  on  which  were  written  the  title  of  the  book,  the 
borrower's  name  and  address,  the  date  of  lending,  and 
the  day  on  which  it  should  be  returned.  These  blocks 
were  put  upon  the  shelves,  and  remained  there,  a  record 
and  a  reminder,  until  the  loaned  books  were  returned. 

Abbotsford  was  usually  taxed  to  its  utmost  to  accom- 
modate its  many  guests  :  some  of  them  old  and  valued 
friends  ;  some,  persons  of  distinction  in  literature,  sci- 
ence, and  society ;  some,  drawn  from  abroad  to  see  the 
country  he  had  described  so  well ;  and  some,  accepting 
the  slightest  hint  as  an  invitation,  quartering  themselves 
upon  its  owner,  with  selfish  curiosity,  for  several  days  at 
a  time.  Lady  Scott  was  not  generally  supposed  to  be  a 
particularly  sagacious  or  brilliant  woman  ;  but  there  was 
wisdom  as  well  as  wit  in  her  remark  that  "  Abbotsford 
was  very  like  a  large  hotel,  except  that  people  did  not 
pay." 


148  LITERATURE. 

Many  of  the  trees  comprising  the  Abbotsford  forest 
were  brought  from  distant  countries,  and  the  gardens 
and  grounds  were  planned  and  planted  by  Scott  himself. 
It  was  his  delight,  when  his  literary  work  for  the  day 
was  finished,  to  engage  in  the  sports  and  pleasures  of 
rural  life,  followed  usually  by  his  retinue  of  dogs  ;  and 
none  was  happier  than  that  "  hard-featured  and  faithful 
old  forester,  Tom  Purdie,  whom  Scott's  kindness  had 
changed  from  a  poacher  into  a  devoted  servant,  when 
the  green  shooting  coat,  white  hat,  and  drab  trousers  of 
the  jovial  sheriff  appeared  in  the  distance  on  the  path 
that  led  to  the  plantations." 


CRITICAL  STUDIES  AND   REMINISCENCES. 


DISTINCTIVE    FEATURES    OF    SCOTT'S    POETRY. 

THE  distinctive  features  of  the  poetry  of  Scott  are 
ease,  rapidity  of  movement,  a  spirited  flow  of  narrative 
that  holds  our  attention,  an  out-of-doors  atmosphere  and 
power  of  natural  description,  an  occasional  intrusion  of  a 
gentle  personal  sadness,  and  but  little  more.  The  subtle 
and  mystical  element  so  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  is  not  to  be  found  in  that 
of  Scott,  while  in  lyrical  power  he  does  not  approach 
Shelley.  We  find,  instead,  an  intense  sense  of  reality 
in  all  his  natural  descriptions  ;  it  surrounds  them  with 
an  indefinable  atmosphere,  because  they  are  so  transpar- 
ently true.  He  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  the 
rare  power  of  grasping  life,  as  it  were,  with  the  bare 
hand ;  of  learning  by  a  shrewd  insight  into  men's  lives, 
and  by  a  healthy  fellowship  with  nature  in  all  her 
moods.  —  PANCOAST. 


THE    CHARM    OF    SCOTT  S    VERSE. 

It  has,  indeed,  rarely  happened  in  the  history  of  liter- 
ature that  poems  written  off-hand  like  these,  with  so  little 
pains  and  so  little  revision,  have  gained  more  than  a 
brief  lease  of  life.  Scott  himself,  with  his  delightful 

149 


150  LITERATURE. 

modesty,  did  not  look  for  permanent  fame  as  a  poet.  In 
all  that  he  anywhere  says  of  his  poetry  his  words  are 
quite  sound,  simple,  and  unpretending.  He  recognized 
the  limits  of  his  power  and  the  sources  of  his  popularity  ; 
he  was  pleased,  but  not  elated,  by  success.  Success 
could,  indeed,  do  nothing  but  good  to  so  manly  and 
healthy  a  nature.  The  real  and  abiding  charm  of  his 
verse  consists  not  in  its  style,  or  in  its  stock  of  ideas, 
nor  in  any  significance  underlying  the  narrative,  but  in 
qualities  which  depend  upon  personal  character.  It  is 
the  expression  of  a  generous  nature,  with  a  living  inter- 
est in  the  outward  spectacle  of  the  world,  a  quick  sym- 
pathy with  the  actors  in  the  long  drama  of  life,  and  a 
keen  sense  of  relation  to  the  earth  and  enjoyment  of  it. 
It  is  the  expression  of  a  lover  of  his  own  land,  of  its 
mountains  and  glens  and  rivers  and  lakes,  dearer  for  the 
sake  of  the  story  of  its  people,  a  story  as  varied  and  pic- 
turesque as  the  scenery  itself.  The  literary  critic  will 
find  a  hundred  faults  in  his  poems ;  but  the  boy,  en- 
tranced by  the  tale,  does  not  know  they  are  there,  and 
the  man,  jaded  with  care  and  weary  of  books,  does  -  not 
mind  them,  finding  refreshment  in  verse  inspired  with 
the  breath  of  the  open  air,  unstudied  in  its  animation, 
unforced  in  its  sentiment,  and  making  simple  appeal 
to  his  memory  and  imagination.  —  CHARLES  ELIOT 
NORTON. 

SCOTT'S     IMAGINATIVE    POWER. 

Walter  Scott  ranks  in  imaginative  power  hardly  below 
any  writer  save  Homer  and  Shakespeare.  His  best 
works  are  his  novels  ;  but  he  holds  a  high  place  as  a 
poet  in  virtue  of  his  metrical  romances  and  of  his  lyrical 


CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  SCOTT.  1^1 

pieces  and  ballads.  His  poetry  flowed  from  a  nature 
in  which  strength,  high  spirit,  and  active  energy  were 
united  with  tender  sensibility  ;  and  with  an  imagination 
wonderfully  lively,  and  directed  by  historic  and  antiqua- 
rian surroundings,  and  by  personal  associations  toward 
the  feudal  past.  Homer  may  have  been  a  warrior  de- 
barred from  battle  by  blindness  ;  Scott  would  perhaps 
have  been  a  soldier  if  he  had  not  been  lame.  —  GOLDWIN 
SMITH. 

SCOTT  AND  THE  FUTURE. 

To  couple  the  name  of  Scott  with  dulness  sounds 
profane,  especially  when  one  remembers  the  kind  of  lit- 
erature which  is  bought  with  avidity  at  railway  bookstalls, 
and  for  some  mysterious  reason  supposed  to  be  amusing. 
If  Scott  is  to  be  called  dull,  what  reputation  is  to  be 
pronounced  safe?  That  Scott  adulterated  his  writings 
with  inferior  materials,  and  in  some  cases  beat  out  his 
gold  uncommonly  thin,  cannot  be  denied.  But  when 
time  has  done  its  worst,  will  there  be  some  permanent 
residue  to  delight  a  distant  posterity,  or  will  his  whole 
work  gradually  crumble  into  fragments  ?  Will  some  of 
his  best  performances  stand  out  like  a  cathedral  amongst 
ruined  hovels,  or  will  they  sink  into  the  dust  together, 
and  the  outlines  of  what  once  charmed  the  world  be 
traced  only  by  historians  of  literature  ?  It  is  a  painful 
task  to  examine  such  questions  impartially.  This  prob- 
ing a  great  reputation,  and  doubting  whether  we  can 
come  to  anything  solid  at  the  bottom,  is  specially  painful 
in  regard  to  Scott.  For  he  has  at  least  this  merit,  that 
he  is  one  of  those  rare  natures  for  whom  we  feel  not 
merely  admiration,  but  affection.  We  cherish  the  fame 


152  LITERATURE. 

of  Pope  or  Byron  or  Swift  in  spit^e  of,  not  on  account  of, 
their  personal  characters;  if  we  satisfied  ourselves  that 
their  literary  reputations  were  founded  on  the  sand  we 
might  partly  console  ourselves  with  the  thought  that  we 
were  only  depriving  bad  men  of  a  title  to  genius.  But 
for  Scott  men  must  feel  even  in  stronger  measure  that 
kind  of  warm  fraternal  regard  which  Macaulay  and 
Thackeray  expressed  for  the  amiable  but  perhaps  rather 
cold-blooded  Addison.  The  manliness  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  man's  nature  predispose  us  to  return  the 
most  favorable  verdict  in  our  power.  And  we  may  add 
that  Scott  is  one  of  the  last  great  English  writers  whose 
influence  extended  beyond  his  island,  and  gave  a  stimulus 
to  the  development  of  European  thought.  We  cannot 
afford  to  surrender  our  faith  in  one  to  whom,  whatever 
his  permanent  merits,  we  must  trace  so  much  that  is 
characteristic  of  the  mind  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Whilst,  finally,  if  we  have  any  Scotch  blood  in  our  veins, 
we  must  be  more  or  less  than  men  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to 
the  promptings  of  patriotism.  When  Shakespeare's  fame 
decays  everywhere  else  the  inhabitants  of  Stratford-on- 
Avon,  if  it  still  exist,  should  still  revere  their  tutelary 
saint ;  and  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh  should  tremble  in 
its  foundation  when  a  sacrilegious  hand  is  laid  upon  the 
glory  of  Scott.  —  LESLIE  STEPHEN. 

SCOTT'S    GREAT    AMBITION. 

There  is  something  of  irony  in  such  a  result  of  the 
herculean  labors  of  Scott  to  found  and  endow  a  new 
branch  of  the  clan  of  Scott.  He  valued  his  works  little 
compared  with  the  house  and  lands  which  they  were  to 


CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  SCOTT.  153 

be  the  means  of  gaining  for  his  descendants  ;  yet  every 
end  for  which  he  struggled  so  gallantly  is  all  but  lost, 
while  his  works  have  gained  more  of  added  lustre  from 
the  losing  battle  which  he  fought  so  long  than  they  could 
have  gained  from  his  success.  What  there  was  in  him 
of  true  grandeur  could  never  have  been  seen  had  the  fifth 
act  of  his  life  been  less  tragic  than  it  was.  Generous, 
large-hearted,  and  magnanimous  as  Scott  was,  there  was 
something  in  his  days  of  prosperity  that  fell  short  of 
what  men  need  for  their  highest  ideal  of  a  strong  man. 

Unbroken  success,  unrivalled  popularity,  imaginative 
effort  flowing  almost  as  steadily  as  the  current  of  a 
stream,  —  these  are  characteristics  which,  even  when  en- 
hanced as  they  were  in  his  case  by  the  power  to  defy 
physical  pain  and  to  live  in  his  imaginative  world  when 
his  body  was  writhing  in  torture,  fail  to  touch  the  heroic 
point.  Till  calamity  came  Scott  appeared  to  be  a  nearly 
complete  natural  man,  but  no  more.  Then  first  was  per- 
ceived in  him  something  above  nature,  something  which 
could  endure  through  every  end  in  life  for  which  he  had 
fought  so  boldly  should  be  defeated,  —  something  which 
could  endure  and  more  than  endure,  which  could  shoot  a 
soft  transparence  of  its  own  through  his  years  of  dark- 
ness and  decay. 

That  there  was  nothing  very  elevated  in  Scott's  per- 
sonal or  moral  or  political  or  literary  ends  ;  that  he 
never  for  a  moment  thought  of  himself  as  one  who  was 
bound  to  leave  the  earth  better  than  he  found  it ;  that  he 
never  seems  to  have  so  much  as  contemplated  a  social  or 
political  life  for  which  he  ought  to  contend  ;  that  he  lived 
to  some  extent  like  a  child  blowing  soap-bubbles,  the 
brightest  and  most  gorgeous  of  which,  the  Abbotsford 


154  LITERATURE. 

bubble,  vanished  before  his  eyes,  —  is  not  a  take-off  from 
the  charm  of  his  career,  but  acids  to  it  the  very  specialty 
of  its  fascination.  For  it  was  his  entire  unconsciousness 
of  moral  or  spiritual  efforts,  the  simple,  straightforward 
way  in  which  he  labored  for  ends  of  the  most  ordinary 
kind,  which  made  it  clear  how  much  greater  the  man  was 
than  his  ends,  how  great  was  the  mind  and  character 
which  prosperity  failed  to  display,  but  which  became  visi- 
ble at  once  as  soon  as  the  storm  came  down  and  the 
night  fell.  Few  men  who  battle  avowedly  for  the  right 
battle  for  it  with  the  calm  fortitude,  the  cheerful  equa- 
nimity, with  which  Scott  battled  to  fulfil  his  engage- 
ments and  to  save  his  family  from  ruin.  —  RICHARD  H. 
HUTTON. 

SCOTT,  THE  REVEALER  OF  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY. 

It  is  upon  Scott's  early  studies  of  the  life  of  his  own 
country,  and  what  we  have  ventured  to  call  his  revelation 
of  that  country  to  the  other  nations  of  the  earth,  that  his 
fame  will  always  rest.  Taken  all  in  all,  no  such  un- 
broken line  of  worthy  and  often  brilliant  work  has  been 
left  by  any  other  workman  in  this  region  of  literature. 
They  have  done  more  to  brighten  the  world,  to  soothe 
the  weary,  to  elevate  the  standard  of  general,  and  what 
if  the  reader  pleases  we  may  call  commonplace,  excel- 
lence than  any  other  works  of  fiction  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  Not  a  word  in  them  all  has  ever  insinuated  evil 
or  palliated  dishonor.  —  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 


CRITICAL   STUDIES   OP   SCOTT.  155 


SCOTT,    THE    CREATOR    OF    THE    HISTORICAL    NOVEL. 

Scott  may  be  said  to  have  created  the  historical  novel. 
He  stands  alone  in  that  branch  of  literary  work.  Others 
have  made,  it  may  be,  one  great  success  in  the  novel  of 
history,  such  as  Thackeray  in  "  Henry  Esmond,"  George 
Eliot  in  "Romola,"  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in 
"  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  "  ;  but  Scott  has  brought 
alike  the  times  of  the  Crusaders  and  of  the  Stuarts  before 
us.  He  has  peopled  the  land  of  Palestine  and  the  hills 
of  Scotland,  the  forests  of  England  and  the  borders  of 
the  Rhine,  for  our  edification  and  delight.  Paladin  and 
peasant,  earl  and  yeoman,  kings  and  their  jesters,  bluff 
men-at-arms  and  gentle  bower  maidens,  all  spring  into 
life  again  at  the  touch  of  the  "  great  enchanter."  The 
Waverley  novels  are  the  splendid  witness  of  the  breadth, 
sympathy,  and  purity  of  one  of  the  great  creative  intel- 
lects of  our  literature,  —  worthy,  indeed,  of  a  place  among 
the  immortals,  side  by  side  with  Chaucer,  and  nearest  to 
the  feet  of  Shakespeare  himself.  —  PANCOAST. 

SCOTT    UNITES    THE    LOWLANDS  AND  HIGHLANDS. 

There  is  a  certain  abandon  in  Scott's  work  which  re- 
moves it  from  the  dignity  of  the  ancient  writers  ;  but  we 
are  repaid  for  this  loss  by  the  intensity  and  the  animated 
movement,  the  clear  daylight,  and  the  inspired  delight  in 
and  with  which  he  invented  and  wrote  his  stories.  It  is 
not  composition  ;  it  is  Scott  actually  present  in  each  of 
his  personages,  doing  their  deeds  and  speaking  their 
thoughts.  His  national  tales  —  and  his  own  country 


156  LITERATURE. 

was  his  best  inspiration  —  are  written  with  such  love  for 
the  characters  and  the  scenes  that  we  feel  his  living  joy 
and  love  underneath  each  of  the  stories  as  a  completing 
charm,  as  a  spirit  that  enchants  the  whole.  And  in 
these  tales  and  in  his  poems  his  own  deep  kindliness, 
his  sympathy  with  human  nature,  united  after  years  of 
enmity,  the  Highlands  to  the  Lowlands.  —  STOPFORD 
A.  BROOKE. 

SOME  OF  SCOTT'S  CHARACTERS. 

The  fame  of  Scotland's  scenery,  the  inspiration  of  her 
romantic    history,   and    the   union   in    sentiment   of  her 


LOCH  KATRINE,  ELLEN'S  ISLE. 


CRITICAL   STUDIES   OF  SCOTT.  157 

peoples  —  lowlanders  and  Highlanders  —  are  due  very 
largely  to  the  leadership  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He 
speaks  and  acts  through  characters  which  were  the  nat- 
ural product  of  the  country  through  centuries  of  advanc- 
ing civilization.  In  bringing  back  "  the  moss-trooper 
and  the  border  knight,  the  glowing  tartans  and  the  tragic 
passion  of  the  highland  chieftains,"  he  introduces  Scot- 
land to  herself,  and  suggests  a  newer  and  broader  out- 
look and  a  larger  and  richer  life. 

Scott's  characters  do  not  flourish  outside  of  the  envi- 
ronments of  their  origin.  They  cannot  easily  be  trans- 
planted. Among  the  most  famous  are  the  following :  — 

Dominie  Sampson.  Absent-minded,  faithful,  and  affectionate, 
with  a  remarkable  awkwardness  of  manners  and  simplicity  of  char- 
acter. His  language  was  always  quaint,  and,  having  been  edu- 
cated for  the  church,  he  frequently  used  the  forcible  and  peculiar 
phraseology  of  the  Scriptures.  Found  in  "  Guy  Mannering." 

Robin  Hood.  The  gallant  and  generous  "king  of  outlaws  and 
prince  of  good  fellows."  Found  in  "  Ivanhoe." 

Jeanie  Deans.  David  Deans'  daughter.  A  perfect  model  of 
sober  heroism  —  of  the  union  of  good  sense  with  strong  affections. 
Found  in  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian." 

Meg  Merrilies.  Henry  Bertram's  gypsy  nurse  and  a  character 
of  commanding  interest.  She  was  venerated  by  her  tribe,  over 
whom  she  held  arbitrary  authority.  She  impressed  beholders  with 
feelings  of  superstitious  awe.  Devoted  to  Henry  Bertram,  weird 
and  oracular,  she  moves  through  the  novel  like  a  spirit  of  destiny. 
Found  in  "  Guy  Mannering." 

Madge  Wildfire.  Meg  Murdockson's  simple-minded  daughter. 
She  was  very  loquacious,  and  her  talk  was  lively  but  disjointed. 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress"  was  the  favorite  subject  of  her  conversation. 
She  received  the  name  of  Madge  Wildfire  from  the  frequency  of 
her  singing  the  following  song :  — 

"I  glance  like  the  wildfire  through  country  and  town, 
I  am  seen  on  the  causeway,  I  'm  seen  on  the  down. 


158  LITER  A  TURE. 

The  lightning  that  flashes  so  bright  and  so  free 
Is  scarcely  so  blithe  or  so  bonny  as  me." 

Found  in  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian." 

Edie  Ochiltree.  A  mendicant  who  had  formerly  been  a  soldier. 
He  played  an  important  part  in  bringing  to  a  happy  issue  the  love 
affairs  of  Lovel  and  Miss  Wardour,  and  in  his  old  age  became  a 
member  of  their  household.  Found  in  "  The  Antiquary." 

Meg  Dods.  Hostess  of  Cleikum  Inn.  Meg's  especial  antipathy 
was  the  fashionable  hotel  at  St.  Ronan's  well.  Desiring  no  mas- 
ter, Meg  refused  to  share  her  small  fortune  with  any  of  the  numer- 
ous aspirants  for  her  hand.  She  exerted  arbitrary  sway  over  her 
servants  and  guests.  Found  in  "  St.  Ronan's  Well." 

Other  characters  equally  widely  known  are  Fergus  and  Flora 
Maclvor  in  "Waverley";  Mr.  Oldbuck,  Bailie  Littlejohn,  and 
Monkbarns  in  "The  Antiquary";  Preacher  Macbrian  in  "Old 
Mortality";  MacGregor,  Helen  Campbell,  and  Diana  Vernon  in 
"Rob  Roy";  Saddletree  and  Sharpitlaw  in  "  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian " ;  Edgar  Ravenswood,  Caleb  Balderstone,  and  Lucy  Ash- 
ton  in  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor"  ;  Isaac  the  Jew,  Ivanhoe,  and 
Lady  Rowena  in  "Ivanhoe";  Amy  Robsart  in  "  Kenilworth " ; 
Halbert  Glendinning  in  "  The  Monastery";  and  Alice  Lee  in 
"Woodstock." 

SCOTT,    A    GENUINE    MAN. 

The  surliest  critic  must  allow  that  Scott  was  a  genuine 
man,  which  itself  is  a  great  matter.  No  affectation,  fan- 
tasticality, or  distortion  dwelt  in  him,  no  shadow  of  cant. 
Nay,  withal  was  he  not  a  right  brave  and  strong  man 
according  to  his  kind?  A  most  composed,  invincible 
man  ;  in  difficulty  and  distress  knowing  no  discourage- 
ment ;  Samson-like,  carrying  off  on  his  strong  Samson 
shoulders  the  gates  that  would  imprison  him.  —  CAR- 
LYLE. 


REMINISCENCES   OF  SCOTT.  159 


SCOTT  S    CAPACITY    FOR    UNIFORM    WORK. 

There  is  no  evidence  that  any  one  of  the  novels  was 
labored  or  even  so  much  as  carefully  composed.  Scott's 
method  of  composition  was  always  the  same  ;  and  when 
writing  an  imaginative  work  the  rate  of  progress  seems 
to  have  been  pretty  even,  depending  much  more  upon 
the  absence  of  disturbing  engagements  than  on  any  men- 
tal irregularity.  The  morning  was  always  his  brightest 
time ;  but  morning  or  evening,  in  country  or  in  town, 
well  or  ill,  writing  with  his  own  pen  or  dictating  to  an 
amanuensis  in  the  intervals  of  screaming  fits  due  to  the 
torture  of  cramp  in  the  stomach,  Scott  spun  away  at  his 
imaginative  web  almost  as  evenly  as  a  silkworm  spins  at 
its  golden  cocoon.  —  RICHARD  H.  HUTTON. 

SCOTT'S    GREAT    SECRET    OF    SUCCESS. 

Scott's  son-in-law,  Mr.  Lockhart,  in  describing  a  jour- 
ney through  Scotland,  says  that  wherever  Scott  slept, 
whether  in  a  noble  mansion  or  in  the  shabbiest  of  coun- 
try inns,  he  very  rarely  mounted  the  carriage  in  the 
morning  without  having  ready  a  package  of  manuscript, 
corded  and  sealed,  and  addressed  to  his  printer  in  Edin- 
burgh. And  yet  all  the  while  he  kept  himself  thor- 
oughly well  informed  upon  contemporary  literature  of 
all  sorts.  Mr.  Lockhart  gives  as  the  grand  secret  his 
perpetual  practice  of  his  own  grand  maxim,  "  Never 
to  be  doing  nothing."  Every  moment  was  turned  to 
account,  and  thus  he  had  leisure  for  everything. 

On  his  return  from  Naples  in  June,   1832,  Scott  was 


1 6O  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

at  once  conveyed  to  Abbotsford,  a  complete  wreck  in 
body  and  mind.  He  desired  to  be  wheeled  through  his 
rooms,  and  as  members  of  his  family  moved  him  leisurely 
for  an  hour  or  more  up  and  down  the  hall  and  the  great 
library,  he  kept  saying  :  "I  have  seen  much,  but  noth- 
ing like  my  ain  house.  Give  me  one  turn  more." 

SCOTT  IN  CONVERSATION. 

The  conversation  of  Scott  was  frank,  hearty,  pictu- 
resque, and  dramatic.  During  the  time  of  my  visit  he 
inclined  to  the  comic  rather  than  the  grave  in  his  anec- 
dotes and  stories,  and  such,  I  was  told,  was  his  general 
inclination.  He  relished  a  joke  or  a  trait  of  humor  in 
social  intercourse,  and  laughed  with  right  good  will.  He 
talked,  not  for  effect  or  display,  but  from  the  flow  of  his 
spirits,  the  stories  of  his  memory,  and  the  vigor  of  his 
imagination.  He  had  a  natural  turn  for  narration  ;  and 
his  narratives  and  descriptions  were  without  effort,  yet 
wonderfully  graphic.  He  placed  the  scene  before  you 
like  a  picture  ;  he  gave  the  dialogue  with  the  appropriate 
dialect  or  peculiarities,  and  described  the  appearance  and 
characters  of  his  personages  with  that  spirit  and  felicity 
evinced  in  his  writings.  He  made  himself  so  thoroughly 
the  companion  of  those  with  whom  he  happened  to  be 
that  they  forgot  for  a  time  his  vast  superiority,  and  only 
recollected  and  wondered,  when  all  was  over,  that  it  was 
Scott  with  whom  they  had  been  on  such  familiar  terms, 
and  in  whose  society  they  had  felt  so  perfectly  at  ease. 
—  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


REMINISCENCES    OF    SCOTT,  l6l 


SCOTT  S    HUMOR. 

The  following  quotation  is  given  as  illustrating  Scott's 
humor.  It  was  spoken  to  Ballantyne,  the  printer  and 
journalist,  who  thought  of  leaving  Edinburgh  to  reside 
in  the  country  :  — 

"When  our  Saviour  Himself  was  to  be  led  into  temptation,  the 
first  thing  the  devil  thought  of  was  to  get  Him  into  the  wilderness." 

SCOTT'S    PERSONALITY. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  more  than  six  feet  in  height, 
though  the  lameness  of  his  right  limb  caused  him  to 
walk  awkwardly.  The  Rev.  J.  C.  Young,  in  a  memoir 
of  C.  M.  Young,  the  tragedian,  gives  the  following 
description  of  his  personal  appearance  :  — 

**  It  was  not  long  before  we  heard  the  eager  tread  of  a  stamping 
heel  resounding  through  the  corridor,  and  in  another  second  the 
door  was  flung  open,  and  in  limped  Scott  himself.  His  light-blue, 
waggish  eye,  sheltered,  almost  screened,  by  its  overhanging  pent- 
house of  straw-colored,  bushy  brows ;  his  scant,  sandy-colored 
hair,  the  Shakespearean  length  of  his  upper  lip,  his  towering  Pisgah 
of  a  forehead,  which  gave  elevation  and  dignity  to  a  physiognomy 
otherwise  deficient  in  both ;  his  abrupt  movements,  the  mingled 
humor,  urbanity,  and  benevolence  of  his  smile,  all  recur  to  me  with 
startling  reality." 

WASHINGTON    IRVING's    REMINISCENCE    OF    SCOTT. 

Among  the  many  visitors  at  Abbotsford  was  Wash- 
ington Irving.  In  one  of  his  sketches  he  thus  describes 
his  first  meeting  with  Scott  :  — 


1 62  LITERATURE. 

"In  a  little  while  the  'lord  of  the  castle'  himself  made  his 
appearance.  I  knew  him  at  once  by  the  descriptions  I  had  read 
and  heard,  and  the  likenesses  that  had  been  published.  He  was 
tall,  and  of  a  large  and  powerful  frame.  His  dress  was  simple, 
and  almost  rustic.  An  old  green  shooting-coat  with  a  dog  whistle 
at  the  buttonhole,  brown  linen  pantaloons,  stout  shoes  that  tied  at 
the  ankles,  and  a  white  hat  that  had  evidently  seen  service.  He 
came  limping  up  the  gravel  walk,  aiding  himself  by  a  stout  walk- 
ing staff,  but  moving  rapidly,  and  with  vigor.  By  his  side  jogged 
along  a  large  iron-gray  staghound  of  the  most  grave  demeanor." 


SCOTT  S    BROAD    SCOTCH. 

Scott's  pronunciation  of  words,  considered  separately, 
was  seldom  much  different  from  that  of  a  well-educated 
Englishman  of  his  time ;  but  the  tone  and  accent  of  his 
speech  was  always  broadly  Scotch. 

SCOTT'S    BODILY    STRENGTH. 

Scott  says  that  when  he  was  a  young  man  he  could 
with  one  hand,  and  by  grasping  the  horn,  lift  a  black- 
smith's anvil.  "But,"  he  adds,  "I  could  do  it  only 
before  breakfast."  He  was  an  expert  as  well  as  power- 
ful wielder  of  the  axe. 

SCOTT,    A    SMOKER. 

Smokers  may  be  glad  to  know  that  Scott  smoked 
both  pipes  and  cigars.  In  a  letter  to  his  son  he  says  : 
"As  you  hussars  smoke,  I  will  send  you  one  of  my 
pipes,  but  you  must  let  me  know  how  I  can  send  it 
safely.  It  is  a  very  handsome  one,  though  not  my 
best." 


REMINISCENCES   OF  SCOTT.  163 


SCOTT  S    DOGS. 

Of  Scott's  deerhounds  there  is  an  unbroken  succes- 
sion. It  was  Camp  on  whose  death  he  relinquished  a 
dinner  invitation  previously  accepted,  on  the  ground 
that  the  death  of  an  old  friend  rendered  him  unwilling 
to  dine  out ;  Maida,  to  whom  he  erected  a  marble  monu- 
ment ;  and  Nimrod,  of  whom  he  spoke  so  affectingly  as 
too  good  a  dog  for  his  diminished  fortunes. 

SCOTT'S    ACTIVITY    IN    YOUTH. 

Lockhart  gives  us  many  instances  of  Scott's  activity 
in  his  boyhood  and  youth.  Despite  his  lameness  he 
was  noted  for  his  fearlessness  in  climbing  and  for  his 
strength  and  hardihood  in  fighting.  A  frolic  or  a  fight 
always  found  him  ready,  and  he  seemed  equally  well 
prepared  for  either. 

SCOTT'S    YOUTHFUL    STRATEGY. 

Scott's  sagacity  in  judging  of  the  characters  of  others 
was  shown  even  as  a  schoolboy.  He  had  long  desired 
to  get  above  a  schoolfellow  who  defied  all  his  efforts. 
Scott  noticed  that  whenever  a  question  was  asked  the 
lad's  fingers  grasped  a  particular  button  on  his  waist- 
coat, while  his  mind  went  in  search  of  the  answer. 
Scott  accordingly  concluded  that  if  he  would  remove 
this  button  his  rival  would  be  beaten  ;  and  so  it  proved. 
The  button  was  cut  off ;  and  the  next  time  the  lad  was 
questioned,  his  fingers  being  unable  to  find  the  button, 
and  his  eyes  going  in  perplexed  search  after  his  fingers, 


I  64  LITER  A  TURE. 

he  stood  confounded ;  and  Scott  gained  by  strategy  the 
place  which  he  failed  to  gain  by  mere  industry. 

SCOTT'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

In  one  of  Scott's  letters  to  his  son,  he  expresses  him- 
self on  the  necessity  and  dignity  of  labor  as  follows  :  — 

*'  I  rely  upon  it  that  you  are  now  working  hard  in  the  classical 
mine,  getting  out  the  rubbish  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  preparing 
yourself  to  collect  the  ore.  I  cannot  too  n.uch  impress  upon  your 
mind  that  labor  is  the  condition  which  God  has  imposed  upon  us 
in  every  station  of  life.  There  is  nothing  worth  having  that  can 
be  had  without  it,  from  the  bread  which  the  peasant  wins  with  the 
sweat  of  his  brow  to  the  sports  by  which  the  rich  man  must  get 
rid  of  his  ennui.  The  only  difference  between  them  is  that  the 
poor  man  labors  to  get  a  dinner  for  his  appetite,  the  rich  man  to 
get  an  appetite  for  his  dinner.  As  for  knowledge,  it  can  no  more 
be  planted  in  the  human  mind  without  labor  than  a  field  of  wheat 
can  be  produced  without  the  previous  use  of  the  plow.  There  is 
indeed  this  great  difference  —  that  chance  or  circumstance  may  so 
cause  it  that  another  may  reap  what  the  farmer  sows ;  but  no  man 
can  be  deprived,  whether  by  accident  or  misfortune,  of  the  fruits  of 
his  own  study,  and  the  liberal  and  extended  acquisitions  of  knowl- 
edge that  he  makes  are  all  for  his  own  use.  Labor,  my  dear  boy, 
therefore,  and  improve  the  time.  In  youth  our  steps  are  light,  and 
our  minds  are  ductile,  and  knowledge  is  easily  laid  up.  But  if  we 
neglect  our  spring,  our  summer  will  be  useless  and  contemptible, 
our  harvest  will  be  chaff,  and  the  winter  of  our  old  age  unrespected 
and  desolate." 

SCOTT'S    DEATHBED    ADMONITION    TO    HIS    SON-IN-LAW. 

On  his  deathbed  it  consoled  him  that  he  had  not  com- 
promised the  interests  of  virtue.  He  said  to  his  son- 
in-law  :  - 

"  Lockhart,  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to 
you.  My  dear,  be  a  good  man  —  be  virtuous,  be  re- 


REMINISCENCES   OF  SCOTT.  165 

ligious  —  be  a  good  man.     Nothing  else  will  give  you 
comfort  when  you  come  to  lie  here." 


SCOTT  S    FUNERAL    AND    DRYBURGH    ABBEY. 

Though  intended  by  the  family  to  be  strictly  private, 
Scott's  funeral  was  attended  by  a  large  concourse  of 
friends  and  admirers  from  all  parts  of  Scotland.  By 
their  own  request  Sir  Walter's  old  domestics  and  forest- 
ers bore  the  coffin  to  the  hearse,  and  from  the  hearse  to 
the  grave,  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  in  the  north  transept 
of  the  old  Abbey  of  Dryburgh. 

Dryburgh  is  a  sweet  old  monastic  seclusion  on  the 
River  Tweed,  about  four  miles  from  Melrose.  Here, 
lying  deep  below  the  surrounding  country,  the  river 
sweeps  on  between  high,  rocky  banks  overhung  with 
that  fine  growth  of  trees  which  no  river  presents  in 
more  beauty,  abundance,  and  luxuriance.  The  ruins  of 
the  abbey  tower  magnificently  above  the  trees.  The 
interior  is  now  greensward,  and  two  rows  of  cedars  grow 
where  formerly  stood  the  pillars  of  the  aisles.  The 
cloisters  and  south  transept  are  more  entire,  and  display 
much  fine  workmanship.  The  square,  from  one  pillar 
of  the  aisle  to  the  next,  which  in  many  churches,  as  in 
Melrose,  formed  a  confessional,  forms  here  a  burial- 
place.  It  is  that  of  the  Scots  of  Haliburton,  from 
whom  Scott  was  descended  ;  and  that  was  probably  one 
reason  why  he  chose  this  place,  though  its  monastic 
beauty  and  associations  were  no  doubt  the  main  causes. 
The  ruined  arches  and  the  trees  about  give  it  the  utmost 
picturesque  effect.  It  is  a  mausoleum  in  entire  keeping 
with  his  character,  genius,  and  feelings, 


1 66  LITER  A  TURE. 

There  is  no  solemn  monument  —  neither  "  storied  urn  " 
nor  " ornamented  bust"   —over  Scott's  grave.     A  solid 


THE  CHANTREY  BUST  OF  SCOTT. 


block  of  Aberdeen  granite,  shaped  after  a  design  by 
Chantrey,  covers  the  remains,  and  bears  the  simple 
inscription  :  — 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BARONET. 


Died  September  2ist,  1832. 


DRYBURGH  ABBEY,  FROM  THE  CLOISTER  COURT. 


SCOTT'S  TOMB,  AT  DRYBURGH  ABBEY. 


REMINISCENCES   OF  SCOTT.  169 


CHANTREY  S    BUST    OF     SCOTT. 

The  marble  bust  done  by  Sir  Francis  Chantrey  in 
1820,  now  at  Abbot sford,  seems  to  command  the  most 
favorable  criticism  of  all  Scott's  likenesses. 

SCOTT'S    MONUMENT    IN    EDINBURGH. 

Among  the  world's  memorials  of  great  men,  there 
are  few  more  celebrated  for  architectural  splendor  than 
the  monument  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  located  on  Princess 
Street,  Edinburgh.  It  is  slightly  more  than  two  hun- 
dred feet  high,  and  is  built  of  finely  grained  brown 
sandstone  in  the  pointed  style  developed  at  Melrose 
Abbey.  The  first  story  consists  of  a  noble  grained 
vault,  open  on  four  sides,  and  flanked  by  large,  richly 
decorated,  and  pinnacled  turrets.  Beneath  this  arch 
is  a  statue  nine  feet  high,  cut  from  a  single  block  of 
marble,  and  representing  Scott  seated  on  a  rock  and 
wrapped  in  a  shepherd's  plaid,  holding  book  and  pen, 
and  attended  by  Maida  lying  at  his  feet.  The  second 
story  is  a  small  but  lofty  room,  brilliantly  lighted  with 
colored  windows.  Around  the  exterior  of  the  second 
and  third  stories  are  galleries  from  which  views  can  be 
had  of  the  elaborate  sculpture  with  which  the  monument 
is  enriched,  and,  especially  from  the  upper  gallery,  of 
the  city  and  its  vicinity. 


SOME  QUERIES  AND   ANSWERS. 


QUERIES. 

1.  What  poem  of  Robert  Browning's  describes  one  of  Scott's 
ancestors? 

2.  What  incidents  in  Scott's  life  show  his  love  for  his  dogs  Camp 
and  Maida? 

3.  What  poem  of  Scott's  was  composed  in  the  saddle,  and  has 
the  stir  of  a  cavalry  charge  in  it? 

4.  In  one  of  Scott's  novels,  one  of  the  characters,  a  royalist,  is 
described   as   having  died  from  the  excitement  of  the  joy  occa- 
sioned by  his  meeting  Charles  II.  on  his  restoration.     Who  was  the 
character,  and  in  what  novel  is  the  incident  told? 

5.  What  heroine  of  Scott's  was  it  who  refused  marriage  because 
her  interest  was  in  the  restoration  of  the  Stuarts,  and  also  encour- 
aged her  brother  in  an  undertaking  that  led  to  his  execution? 

6.  What  play  founded  upon  one  of  Scott's  novels  was  acted  with 
great  success  by  Charlotte  Cushman  and  also  by  Mme.  Janauschek? 
What  character  in  this  play  did  these  actresses  take? 

7.  In  one  of  Scott's   novels  a  character,   "a  descendant  of  a 
German  printer,"  is  represented  as  having  trained  his  maiden  sister 
and  his  niece  to  consider  him,  so  to  speak,  "  the  greatest  man  on 
earth."     Who  was  this  character?  and  what  is  the  novel  in  which 
the  character  appears  ? 

8.  What  character  in  the  novels  is  represented  as  having  devoted 
his  life  to  the  renovation  of  the  gravestones  of  the  martyrs  of  the 
Covenant  ? 

9.  In  what  novel  of  Scott's,  and  in  what  character  of  the  novel, 
is  given  a  picture  of  sisterly  devotion  said  to  be  even  nobler  than 
that  of  George  Meredith's  "  Rhoda  Fleming"? 

10.  What  novel  of  Scott's  forms  the  basis  of  a  well-known  Italian 
opera?     What  incident  in  the  novel  is  reminiscent  of  Ophelia? 


SCOTT—  Q UERIES  AND  ANS WERS.  I  7  I 

IT.  Who  was  the  soldier  of  fortune  in  Scott's  novels,  that,  when 
visited  in  prison  by  the  lord  of  the  castle,  recognized  the  lord's  dis- 
guise, throttled  him,  and  forced  him  to  give  the  password,  and  so 
escaped? 

12.  What  king  is  it,  in  one  of  Scott's  works,  whose  character, 
subtle   and  superstitious,   is  frequently  said   to  be  Henry  Irving's 
greatest  impersonation? 

13.  In  one  of  Scott's  works  a  beautiful  girl  is  represented  as  hav- 
ing been  walled  up  alive.     Who  was  the  girl?  and  in  what  work  is 
her  sad  history  related? 

14.  In  what  book  is  it  described  how  a  famous  dwarf  hides  in  a 
cello  case,  and  informs  a  king  of  treachery? 

15.  Who  said  the  following  words,  and  under  what  circumstances 
were  they  said  ?  —  "  Mourn  not  for  me,  but  care  for  your  own  safety. 

I  die  in  mine  armor  as  a  should,  and  I  die  pitied  by  Mary 

Stuart." 

16.  What  famous  beauty  was  it  who,  when  condemned  to  die  at 
the  stake,  expressed  her  gratitude  to  her  deliverer's  wife  by  giving 
her  a  casket  of  diamonds? 

17.  In  what  book  of  Scott's  do  we  have  a  picture  of  an  Eliza- 
bethan entertainment?     What  three  queen's  favorites  are  described 
in  the  book?     And  with  what  sweet  girl,  now  buried  at  St.  Mary's, 
Oxford,  was  connected  the  sad  tragedy  whose   history  the   book 
relates  ? 

1 8.  What  famous  child  was  once  Walter  Scott's  pet  and  delight, 
whom   he  used   to  carry  to  his  home  through  the   "angry  airt," 
shielding  her  in  his  plaid? 

19.  What  curious  instance  of  the  popularity  of  "  Marmion  "  is 
recorded  ? 

20.  What  novel  gives  a  picture  of  a  king  liberated  from  prison  by 
means  of  a  loved  melody  sung  outside? 


ANSWERS. 

(i)  "  Muckle-Mouth  Meg."  And  this  ancestor  of  Scott's  trans- 
mitted a  distinct  trace  of  her  large  mouth  to  her  descendant,  who 
used  it,  however,  to  advantage  as  the  spokesman  of  his  race.  (2) 
When  Camp  died,  Scott  refused  a  dinner  invitation  previously  ac- 
cepted, saying  that  "the  death  of  an  old  friend"  prevented  his 


1/2  LITERATURE. 

coming.  For  Maida  he  built  a  marble  monument.  (3)  "  Mar- 
mion," a  story  of  the  battle  of  Flodden.  (4)  Sir  Henry  Lee,  in 
"  Woodstock."  (5)  Flora  Maclvor,  in  "  Waverley,"  a  story  which 
relates  to  the  insurrection  in  the  Stuart  interest  led  by  Charles 
Edward  in  1745.  (6)  "  Guy  Mannering."  The  role  was  that  of 
Meg  Merrilies,  a  weird  gypsy,  akin  to  the  witches  of  "  Mac- 
beth." (7)  Jonathan  Oldbuck  in  *«  The  Antiquary,"  who  boasted 
that  these  two  women  were  the  only  ones  he  had  ever  seen  "  well 
broken  and  bitted  to  obedience."  (8)  Robert  Patterson,  or  "  Old 
Mortality,"  whose  white  pony  fed  among  the  tombs  while  his  mas- 
ter was  engaged  in  his  labors.  (9)  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian," 
whose  interest  centres  upon  the  heroic  efforts  of  Jeanie  Deans 
to  procure  the  pardon  of  her  sister  Effie.  (10)  "The  Bride  of 
Lammermoor."  Lucy  Ashton,  the  beautiful  heroine,  goes  mad 
from  unhappy  love,  and  a  tragedy  follows.  "Lucia  de  Lammer- 
moor" is  the  opera,  (n)  Dugald  Dalgetty,  in  "The  Legend  of 
Montrose,"  a  second  Falstaff,  who  boasted  of  his  adventures  under 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  the  Lion  of  the  North.  (12)  Louis  XI.  in 
"  Quentin  Durward."  (13)  Constance  de  Beverly,  in  "  Marmion," 
an  escaped  nun,  who  received  the  doom  of  death  as  her  punish- 
ment for  broken  vows.  (14)  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  in  "  Peveril  of 
the  Peak."  He  was  a  favorite  of  Henrietta  Maria.  (15)  George 
Douglas,  in  "The  Abbot."  He  had  assisted  the  queen  to  escape. 
(16)  Rebecca,  the  Jewess,  in  "Ivanhoe";  and  to  Ivanhoe's  wife, 
the  Saxon  Rowena,  were  given  the  jewels.  (17)  In  "  Kenil worth." 
Earls  of  Leicester  and  Sussex  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  Amy  Rob- 
sart.  (18)  Marjorie  Fleming,  who  at  seven  years  of  age  used  to  sit 
on  Scotfs  stout  shoulder  and  recite  Shakespeare  —  a  most  preco- 
cious and  interesting  child.  A  year  later  she  died.  A  delightful 
account  of  her  is  given  in  the  Little  Classics  —  "  Childhood."  (19) 
Two  old  men,  entire  strangers,  were  passing  one  another  on  a  dark 
London  night.  One  happened  to  be  repeating  to  himself,  "  Charge, 
Chester,  charge !  "  when  suddenly  a  reply  came  out  of  the  darkness, 
"  On,  Stanley,  on  ! "  whereupon  they  finished  the  death  of  Marmion 
together,  took  off  their  hats  to  each  other,  and  parted,  laughing. 
(20)  "The  Talisman"  gives  a  picture  of  Richard  the  Lion-Hearted 
being  found  in  prison  by  his  minstrel  Blondel. 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT. 


SUNSET    IN    A    STORM. 

THE  sun  was  now  resting  his  huge  disk  upon  the  edge 
of  the  level  ocean,  and  gilded  the  accumulation  of  tow- 
ering clouds  through  which  he  had  travelled  the  livelong 
day,  and  which  now  assembled  on  all  sides,  like  mis- 
fortunes and  disasters  around  a  sinking  empire  and 
falling  monarch.  Still,  however,  his  dying  splendor  gave 
a  sombre  magnificence  to  the  massive  congregation  of 
vapors,  forming  out  of  their  unsubstantial  gloom  the 
show  of  pyramids  and  towers,  some  touched  with  gold, 
some  with  purple,  some  with  a  hue  of  deep  and  dark  red. 
The  distant  sea,  stretched  beneath  this  varied  and  gor- 
geous canopy,  lay  almost  portentously  still,  reflecting 
back  the  dazzling  and  level  beams  of  the  descending 
luminary,  and  the  splendid  coloring  of  the  clouds  amidst 
which  he  was  setting.  Nearer  to  the  beach  the  tide 
rippled  onward  in  waves  of  sparkling  silver,  that  imper- 
ceptibly, yet  rapidly,  gained  upon  the  sand. 

With  a  mind  employed  in  admiration  of  the  romantic 
scene,  or  perhaps  on  some  more  agitating  topic,  Miss 
Wardour  advanced  in  silence  by  her  father's  side,  whose 
recently  offended  dignity  did  not  stoop  to  open  any  con- 
versation. Following  the  windings  of  the  beach,  they 
passed  one  projecting  point,  or  headland  of  rock,  after 

173 


I  74  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

another,  and  now  found  themselves  under  a  huge  and 
continued  extent  of  the  precipices  by  which  that  iron- 
bound  coast  is  in  most  places  defended.  Long  project- 
ing reefs  of  rock,  extending  under  water,  and  only 
evincing  their  existence  by  here  and  there  a  peak  entirely 
bare,  or  by  the  breakers  which  foamed  over  those  that 
were  partially  covered,  rendered  Knockwinnock  Bay 
dreaded  by  pilots  and  shipmasters.  The  crags  which 
rose  between  the  beach  and  the  mainland,  to  the  height 
of  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  afforded  in  their  crevices 
shelter  for  unnumbered  sea-fowl,  in  situations  seemingly 
secured  by  their  dizzy  height  from  the  rapacity  of  man. 
Many  of  these  wild  tribes,  with  the  instinct  which  sends 
them  to  seek  the  land  before  a  storm  arises,  were  now 
winging  towards  their  nests  with  the  shrill  and  dissonant 
clang  which  announces  disquietude  and  fear.  The  disk 
of  the  sun  became  almost  totally  obscured  ere  he  had 
altogether  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  an  early  and 
lurid  shade  of  darkness  blotted  the  serene  twilight  of  a 
summer  evening.  The  wind  began  next  to  arise ;  but 
its  wild  and  moaning  sound  was  heard  for  some  time, 
and  its  effects  became  visible  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
before  the  gale  was  felt  on  shore.  The  mass  of  waters, 
now  dark  and  threatening,  began  to  lift  itself  in  larger 
ridges,  and  sink  in  deeper  furrows,  forming  waves  that 
rose  high  in  foam  upon  the  breakers,  or  burst  upon  the 
beach  with  a  sound  resembling  distant  thunder.  —  From 
"  The  Antiquary." 

THE  DISCOVERY  OF  THE  TOMB  OF  ROBERT  THE  BRUCE. 

Such   of  the   Scottish  knights  as  remained  alive  re- 
turned to  their  own  country.     They  brought  back  the 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT, 


heart  of  the  Bruce,  and  the  -bones  of  the  good  Lord 
James.  These  last  were  interred  in  the  church  of  St. 
Bride,  where  Thomas  Dickson  and  Douglas  held  so 
terrible  a  Palm  Sunday.  The  Bruce' s  heart  was  buried 
below  the  high  altar  in  Melrose  Abbey.  As  for  his 
body,  it  was  laid  in  the  sepulchre  in  the  midst  of  the 
church  of  Dunfermline,  under  a  marble  stone.  But  the 
church  becoming  afterwards  ruinous,  and  the  roof  falling 
down  with  age,  the  monument  was  broken  to  pieces,  and 
nobody  could  tell  where  it  stood.  But  a  little  while 
ago,  when  they  were  repairing  the  church  at  Dunferm- 
line, and  removing  the  rubbish,  lo  !  they  found  frag- 
ments of  the  marble  tomb  of  Robert  Bruce.  Then  they 
began  to  dig  farther,  thinking  to  discover  the  body  of 
this  celebrated  monarch  ;  and  at  length  they  came  to 
the  skeleton  of  a  tall  man,  and  they  knew  it  must  be 
that  of  King  Robert,  both  as  he  was  known  to  have 
been  buried  in  a  winding  sheet  of  cloth  of  gold,  of  which 
many  fragments  were  found  about  this  skeleton,  and 
also  because  the  breastbone  appeared  to  have  been  sawn 
through,  in  order  to  take  out  the  heart.  So  orders  were 
sent  from  the  King's  Court  of  Exchequer  to  guard  the 
bones  carefully,  until  a  new  tomb  should  be  prepared, 
into  which  they  were  laid  with  profound  respect.  A 
great  many  gentlemen  and  ladies  attended,  and  almost 
all  the  common  people  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  as  the 
church  could  not  hold  half  the  numbers,  the  people  were 
allowed  to  pass  through  it,  one  after  another,  that  each 
one,  the  poorest  as  well  as  the  richest,  might  see  all  that 
remained  of  the  great  King  Robert  Bruce,  who  restored 
the  Scottish  monarchy.  Many  people  shed  tears  ;  for 
there  was  the  wasted  skull  which  once  was  the  head 


1 76 


LITER  A  TURE. 


that  thought  so  wisely  and  boldly  for  his  country's  deliv- 
erance ;  and  there  was  the  dry  bone  which  had  once 
been  the  sturdy  arm  that  killed  Sir  Henry  de  Bohun, 
between  the  two  armies,  at  a  single  blow,  on  the  evening 
before  the  battle  of  Bannockburn. 

It  is  more  than  five  hundred  years  since  the  body  of 
Bruce  was  first  laid   into  the  tomb ;  and  how   many, 


DRYBURGH  ABBEY  FROM  THE  EAST. 

many  millions  of  men  have  died  since  that  time,  whose 
bones  could  not  be  recognized,  nor  their  names  known, 
any  more  than  those  of  inferior  animals !  It  was  a 
great  thing  to  see  that  the  wisdom,  courage,  and  patri- 
otism of  a  King  could  preserve  him  for  such  a  long  time 
in  the  memory  of  the  people  over  whom  he  once  reigned. 
But  then,  my  dear  child,  you  must  remember,  that  it  is 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  1JJ 

only  desirable  to  be  remembered  for  praiseworthy  and 
patriotic  actions,  such  as  those  of  Robert  Bruce.  It 
would  be  better  for  a  prince  to  be  forgotten  like  the 
meanest  peasant,  than  to  be  recollected  for  actions  of 
tyranny  or  oppression. — From  "  The  Tales  of  a  Grand- 
father" 

THE  PRAYER  OF  LOUIS  THE  ELEVENTH. 

Above  the  little  door,  in  memory  perhaps  of  the  deed 
which  had  been  done  within,  was  a  rude  niche  contain- 
ing a  crucifix  cut  in  stone.  Upon  this  emblem  the  King 
fixed  his  eyes,  as  if  about  to  kneel,  but  stopped  short, 
as  if  he  applied  to  the  blessed  image  the  principles  of 
worldly  policy,  and  deemed  it  rash  to  approach  its  pres- 
ence without  having  secured  the  private  intercession  of 
some  supposed  favorite.  He  therefore  turned  from  the 
crucifix  as  unworthy  to  look  upon  it,  and  selecting  from 
the  images  with  which,  as  often  mentioned,  his  hat  was 
completely  garnished,  a  representation  of  the  Lady  of 
Clery,  knelt  down  before  it,  and  made  the  following 
extraordinary  prayer ;  in  which,  it  is  to  be  observed,  the 
grossness  of  his  superstition  induced  him,  in  some  de- 
gree, to  consider  the  Virgin  of  Clery  as  a  different  per- 
son from  the  Madonna  of  Embrun,  a  favorite  idol,  to 
whom  he  often  paid  his  vows. 

"  Sweet  Lady  of  Clery,"  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his 
hands  and  beating  his  breast  while  he  spoke,  "  blessed 
Mother  of  Mercy  !  thou  who  art  omnipotent  with  Om- 
nipotence, have  compassion  with  me  a  sinner !  It  is 
true  that  I  have  something  neglected  thee  for  thy 
blessed  sister  of  Embrun  ;  but  I  am  a  King,  my  power 
is  great,  my  wealth  boundless ;  and,  were  it  otherwise,  I 


1 78  LITERATURE. 

would  double  the  gabelle  on  my  subjects,  rather  than 
not  pay  my  debts  to  you  both.  Undo  these  iron  doors  ; 
fill  up  these  tremendous  moats  ;  lead  me,  as  a  mother 
leads  a  child,  out  of  this  present  and  pressing  danger ! 
If  I  have  given  thy  sister  the  county  of  Boulogne,  to 
be  held  of  her  forever,  have  I  no  means  of  showing 
devotion  to  thee  also  ?  Thou  shalt  have  the  broad  and 
rich  province  of  Champagne ;  and  its  vineyards  shall 
pour  their  abundance  into  thy  convent.  I  had  prom- 
ised the  province  to  my  brother  Charles ;  but  he,  thou 
knowest,  is  dead,  —  poisoned  by  that  wicked  Abbe  of 
Saint  John  d' Angely,  whom,  if  I  live,  I  will  punish !  —  I 
promised  this  once  before,  but  this  time  I  will  keep  my 
word.  If  I  had  any  knowledge  of  the  crime,  believe, 
dearest  patroness,  it  was  because  I  knew  no  better 
method  of  quieting  the  discontents  of  my  kingdom. 
O,  do  not  reckon  that  old  debt  to  my  account  to-day ; 
but  be,  as  thou  hast  ever  been,  kind,  benignant,  and 
easy  to  be  entreated !  Sweetest  Lady,  work  with  thy 
child,  that  he  will  pardon  all  past  sins,  and  one  —  one 
little  deed,  which  I  must  do  this  night  —  nay,  it  is  no 
sin,  dearest  Lady  of  Clery  —  no  sin,  but  an  act  of  jus- 
tice privately  administered  ;  for  the  villain  is  the  greatest 
impostor  that  ever  poured  falsehood  into  a  Prince's  ear, 
and  leans  besides  to  the  filthy  heresy  of  the  Greeks. 
He  is  not  deserving  of  thy  protection  ;  leave  him  to  my 
care ;  and  hold  it  as  good  service  that  I  rid  the  world  of 
him  ;  for  the  man  is  a  necromancer  and  wizard,  that  is 
not  worth  thy  thought  and  care,  —  a  dog,  the  extinction 
of  whose  life  ought  to  be  of  as  little  consequence  in 
thine  eyes  as  the  treading  out  a  spark  that  drops  from  a 
lamp,  or  springs  from  a  fire.  Think  not  of  this  little 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  179 

matter,  gentlest,  kindest  Lady,  but  only  consider  how 
thou  canst  best  aid  me  in  my  troubles  !  And  I  here 
bind  my  royal  signet  to  thy  effigy,  in  token  that  I  will 
keep  word  concerning  the  county  of  Champagne,  and 
that  this  shall  be  the  last  time  I  will  trouble  thee  in 
affairs  of  blood,  knowing  thou  art  so  kind,  so  gentle, 
and  so  tender-hearted." 

After  this  extraordinary  contract  with  the  object  of  his 
adoration,  Louis  recited,  apparently  with  deep  devotion, 
the  seven  penitential  psalms  in  Latin,  and  several  aves 
and  prayers  especially  belonging  to  the  service  of  the 
Virgin.  He  then  arose,  satisfied  that  he  had  secured 
the  intercession  of  the  Saint  to  whom  he  had  prayed, 
the  rather,  as  he  craftily  reflected,  that  most  of  the  sins 
for  which  he  had  requested  her  mediation  on  former 
occasions  had  been  of  a  different  character,  and  that, 
therefore,  the  Lady  of  Clery  was  less  likely  to  consider 
him  as  a  hardened  and  habitual  shedder  of  blood,  than 
the  other  saints  whom  he  had  more  frequently  made 
confidants  of  his  crimes  in  that  respect.  — From  "  Quen- 
tin  Durward" 


BEFORE  THE  READING  OF  THE  WILL. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Mannering  went  to  a  small 
house  in  the  suburbs  to  the  southward  of  the  city,  where 
he  found  the  place  of  mourning,  indicated,  as  usual  in 
Scotland,  by  two  rueful  figures  with  long  black  cloaks, 
white  crapes  and  hat-bands,  holding  in  their  hands  poles, 
adorned  with  melancholy  streamers  of  the  same  descrip- 
tion. By  two  other  mutes,  who,  from  their  visages, 
seemed  suffering  under  the  pressure  of  some  strange 


i8o 


LITERATURE. 


calamity,  he  was  ushered  into  the  dining-parlor  of  the 
defunct,  where  the  company  were  assembled  for  the 
funeral. 

In  Scotland,  the  custom,  now  disused  in  England,  of 
inviting  the  relations  of  the  deceased  to  the  interment,  is 


SCOTT'S  MONUMENT  AT  EDINBURGH. 


universally  retained.  On  many  occasions  this  has  a 
singular  and  striking  effect ;  but  it  degenerates  into 
mere  empty  form  and  grimace  in  cases  where  the 
defunct  has  had  the  misfortune  to  live  unbeloved  and 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  l8l 

die  unlamented.  The  English  service  for  the  dead, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  impressive  parts  of  the 
ritual  of  the  church,  would  have,  in  such  cases,  the 
effect  of  fixing  the  attention,  and  uniting  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  the  audience  present,  in  an  exercise  of 
devotion  so  peculiarly  adapted  to  such  an  occasion. 
But,  according  to  the  Scottish  custom,  if  there  be  not 
real  feeling  among  the  assistants,  there  is  nothing  to 
supply  the  deficiency,  and  exalt  or  rouse  the  attention  ; 
so  that  a  sense  of  tedious  form,  and  almost  hypocritical 
restraint,  is  too  apt  to  pervade  the  company  assembled 
for  the  mournful  solemnity.  Mrs.  Margaret  Bertram 
was  unluckily  one  of  those  whose  good  qualities  had 
attached  no  general  friendship.  She  had  no  near  rela- 
tions who  might  have  mourned  from  natural  affection, 
and  therefore  her  funeral  exhibited  merely  the  exterior 
trappings  of  sorrow. 

Mannering,  therefore,  stood  among  this  lugubrious 
company  of  cousins  in  the  third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth 
degree,  composing  his  countenance  to  the  decent  solem- 
nity of  all  who  were  around  him,  and  looking  as  much 
concerned  on  Mrs.  Margaret  Bertram's  account  as  if 
the  deceased  lady  of  Singleside  had  been  his  own  sister 
or  mother.  After  a  deep  and  awful  pause,  the  company 
began  to  talk  aside,  —  under  their  breaths,  however,  and 
as  if  in  the  chamber  of  a  dying  person. 

"  Our  poor  friend,"  said  one  grave  gentleman,  scarcely 
opening  his  mouth,  for  fear  of  deranging  the  necessary 
solemnity  of  his  features,  and  sliding  his  whisper  from 
between  his  lips,  which  were  as  little  unclosed  as  pos- 
sible, —  "  Our  poor  friend  has  died  well  to  pass  in  the 
world." 


1 82  LITERATURE. 

"  Nae  doubt,"  answered  the  person  addressed,  with 
half -closed  eyes  ;  "  poor  Mrs.  Margaret  was  aye  careful 
of  the  gear." 

"Any  news  to-day,  Colonel  Mannering  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  gentlemen  whom  he  had  dined  with  the  day  before, 
but  in  a  tone  which  might,  for  its  impressive  gravity, 
have  communicated  the  death  of  his  whole  generation. 

"  Nothing  particular,  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Mannering, 
in  the  cadence  which  was,  he  observed,  appropriate  to 
the  house  of  mourning. 

"I  understand,"  continued  the  first  speaker  emphat- 
ically, and  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  well  informed  — 
"  I  understand  there  is  a  settlement." 

"  And  what  does  little  Jenny  Gibson  get  ?  " 

"  A  hundred,  and  the  auld  repeater." 

"  That 's  but  sma'  gear,  puir  thing ;  she  had  a  sair 
time  o't  with  the  auld  leddy.  But  it 's  ill  waiting  for 
dead  folk's  shoon." 

"I  am  afraid,"   said  the  politician,  who  was  close  by 
Mannering,    "  we  have  not  done  with  your  old    friend 
Tippoo  Saib  yet,  —  I  doubt  he  '11  give  the  Company  more 
plague ;  and  I  am  told  —  but  you  '11  know  for  certain  — 
that  East  India  Stock  is  not  rising." 

"I  trust  it  will,  sir,  soon." 

"Mrs.  Margaret,"  said  another  person,  mingling  in 
the  conversation,  "  had  some  India  bonds.  I  know  that, 
for  I  drew  the  interest  for  her  —  it  would  be  desirable 
now  for  the  trustees  and  legatees  to  have  the  colonel's 
advice  about  the  time  and  mode  of  converting  them  into 
money.  For  my  part  I  think  —  But  there  's  Mr.  Mort- 
cloke  to  tell  us  they  are  gaun  to  lift." 

Mr.  Mortcloke  the  undertaker  did  accordingly,  with  a 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  183 

visage  of  professional  length  and  most  grievous  solem- 
nity, distribute  among  the  pall-bearers  little  cards,  as- 
signing their  respective  situations  in  attendance  upon 
the  coffin.  As  this  precedent  is  supposed  to  be  regu- 
lated by  propinquity  to  the  defunct  the  undertaker, 
however  skilful  a  master  of  these  lugubrious  ceremonies, 
did  not  escape  giving  some  offence.  To  be  related  to 
Mrs.  Bertram  was  to  be  of  kin  to  the  lands  of  Single- 
side,  and  was  a  propinquity  of  which  each  relative  pres- 
ent at  that  moment  was  particularly  jealous.  Some 
murmurs  there  were  on  the  occasion  ;  and  our  friend 
Dinmont  gave  more  open  offence,  being  unable  either  to 
repress  his  discontent,  or  to  utter  it  in  the  key  properly 
modulated  to  the  solemnity.  "  I  think  ye  might  hae  at 
least  gi'en  me  a  leg  o'  her  to  carry,"  he  exclaimed,  in 
a  voice  considerably  louder  than  propriety  admitted; 
"God!  an  it  hadna  been  for  the  rigs  o'  land,  I  would 
hae  gotten  her  a'  to  carry  mysell,  for  as  mony  gentles 
as  are  here." 

A  score  of  frowning  and  reproving  brows  were  bent 
upon  the  unappalled  yeoman,  who,  having  given  vent  to 
his  displeasure,  stalked  sturdily  down-stairs  with  the  rest 
of  the  company,  totally  disregarding  the  censures  of 
those  whom  his  remarks  had  scandalized. 

And  then  the  funeral  pomp  set  forth  ;  saulies  with 
their  batons,  and  gumphions  of  tarnished  white  crape, 
in  honor  of  the  well-preserved  maiden  fame  of  Mrs. 
Margaret  Bertram.  Six  starved  horses,  themselves  the 
very  emblems  of  mortality,  well  cloaked  and  plumed, 
lugging  along  the  hearse  with  its  dismal  emblazonry, 
crept  in  slow  state  towards  the  place  of  interment,  pre- 
ceded by  Jamie  Duff,  an  idiot,  who,  with  weepers  and 


1 84  LITERATURE. 

cravat  made  of  white  paper,  attended  on  every  funeral, 
and  followed  by  six  mourning  coaches,  rilled  with  the 
company.  Many  of  these  now  gave  more  free  loose  to 
their  tongues  and  discussed  with  unrestrained  earnest- 
ness, the  amount  of  the  succession,  and  the  probability 
of  its  destination.  The  principal  expectants,  however, 
kept  a  prudent  silence,  indeed,  ashamed  to  express  hopes 
which  might  prove  fallacious  ;  and  the  agent,  or  man  of 
business,  who  alone  knew  exactly  how  matters  stood, 
maintained  a  countenance  of  mysterious  importance,  as 
if  determined  to  preserve  the  full  interest  of  anxiety  and 
suspense. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  the  churchyard  gates ;  and 
from  thence,  amid  the  gaping  of  two  or  three  dozen 
of  idle  women  with  infants  in  their  arms,  and  accom- 
panied by  some  twenty  children,  who  ran  gambolling 
and  screaming  alongside  of  the  sable  procession,  they 
finally  arrived  at  the  burial-place  of  the  Singleside  fam- 
ily. This  was  a  square  enclosure  in  the  Greyfriars' 
churchyard,  guarded  on  one  side  by  a  veteran  angel, 
without  a  nose,  and  having  only  one  wing,  who  had  the 
merit  of  having  maintained  his  post  for  a  century,  while 
his  comrade  cherub,  who  had  stood  sentinel  on  the 
corresponding  pedestal,  lay  a  broken  trunk  among  the 
hemlock,  burdock,  and  nettles,  which  grew  in  gigantic 
luxuriance  around  the  walls  of  the  mausoleum.  A  moss- 
grown  and  broken  inscription  informed  the  reader  that 
in  the  year  1650  Captain  Andrew  Bertram,  first  of 
Singleside,  descended  of  the  very  ancient  and  honorable 
house  of  Ellangowan,  had  caused  this  monument  to  be 
erected  for  himself  and  his  descendants.  .  .  . 

Here  then,  amid  the  deep  black  fat  loam  into  which 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  187 

her  ancestors  were  now  resolved,  they  deposited  the 
body  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Bertram ;  and,  like  soldiers  re- 
turning from  a  military  funeral,  the  nearest  relations, 
who  might  be  interested  in  the  settlements  of  the  lady, 
urged  the  dog-cattle  of  the  hackney  coaches  to  all  the 
speed  of  which  they  were  capable,  in  order  to  put  an 
end  to  farther  suspense  on  that  interesting  topic.  — 
From  "  Guy  Mannering" 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

The  Antiquary,  being  now  alone,  hastened  his  pace, 
which  had  been  retarded  by  these  various  discussions, 
and  the  rencontre  which  had  closed  them,  and  soon  ar- 
rived before  the  half-dozen  cottages  at  Mussel-crag. 
They  had  now,  in  addition  to  their  usual  squalid  and 
uncomfortable  appearance,  the  melancholy  attributes  of 
the  house  of  mourning.  The  boats  were  all  drawn  up 
on  the  beach  ;  and,  though  the  day  was  fine,  and  the 
season  favorable,  the  chant,  which  is  used  by  the  fishers 
when  at  sea,  was  silent,  as  well  as  the  prattle  of  the 
children,  and  the  shrill  song  of  the  mother  as  she  sits 
mending  her  nets  by  the  door.  A  few  of  the  neighbors, 
some  in  their  antique  and  well-saved  suits  of  black, 
others  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  but  all  bearing  an  ex- 
pression of  mournful  sympathy  with  distress  so  sudden 
and  unexpected,  stood  gathered  around  the  door  of 
Mucklebac kit's  cottage,  waiting  till  "the  body  was  lift- 
ed." As  the  Laird  of  Monkbarns  approached,  they 
made  way  for  him  to  enter,  doffing  their  hats  and  bon- 
nets as  he  passed,  with  an  air  of  melancholy  courtesy  ; 
and  he  returned  their  salutes  in  the  same  manner. 


1 88  LITERATURE. 

In  the  inside  of  the  cottage  was  a  scene  which  our 
Wilkie  alone  could  have  painted  with  that  exquisite  feel- 
ing of  nature  that  characterizes  his  enchanting  pro- 
ductions. 

The  body  was  laid  in  its  coffin  within  the  wooden 
bedstead  which  the  young  fisher  had  occupied  while 
alive.  At  a  little  distance  stood  the  father,  whose  rug- 
ged weather-beaten  countenance,  shaded  by  his  grizzled 
hair,  had  faced  many  a  stormy  night  and  night-like  day. 
He  was  apparently  revolving  his  loss  in  his  mind  with 
that  strong  feeling  of  painful  grief,  peculiar  to  harsh 
and  rough  characters,  which  almost  breaks  forth  into 
hatred  against  the  world,  and  all  that  remain  in  it,  after 
the  beloved  object  is  withdrawn.  The  old  man  had 
made  the  most  desperate  efforts  to  save  his  son,  and  had 
only  been  withheld  by  main  force  from  renewing  them 
at  a  moment,  when,  without  the  possibility  of  assisting 
the  sufferer,  he  must  himself  have  perished.  All  this 
apparently  was  boiling  in  his  recollection.  His  glance 
was  directed  sidelong  towards  the  coffin,  as  to  an  object 
on  which  he  could  not  steadfastly  look,  and  yet  from 
which  he  could  not  withdraw  his  eyes.  His  answers  to 
the  necessary  questions  which  were  occasionally  put  to 
him  were  brief,  harsh,  and  almost  fierce.  His  family 
had  not  yet  dared  to  address  to  him  a  word,  either  of 
sympathy  or  consolation.  His  masculine  wife,  virago  as 
she  was  and  absolute  mistress  of  the  family,  as  she 
justly  boasted  herself,  on  all  ordinary  occasions,  was,  by 
this  great  loss,  terrified  into  silence  and  submission,  and 
compelled  to  hide  from  her  husband's  observation  the 
bursts  of  her  female  sorrow.  As  he  had  rejected  food 
ever  since  the  disaster  had  happened,  not  daring  herself 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  189 

to  approach  him,  she  had  that  morning,  with  affectionate 
artifice,  employed  the  youngest  and  favorite  child  to 
present  her  husband  with  some  nourishment.  His  first 
action  was  to  put  it  from  him  with  an  angry  violence 
that  frightened  the  child ;  his  next,  to  snatch  up  the 
boy,  and  devour  him  with  kisses.  "  Ye  '11  be  a  bra'  fal- 
low, an  ye  be  spared,  Patie,  —  but  ye  '11  never  —  never 
can  be  —  what  he  was  to  me  !  —  He  has  sailed  the  coble 
wi'  me  since  he  was  ten  years  auld,  and  there  wasna  the 
like  o'  him  drew  a  net  betwixt  this  and  Buchanness.  — 
They  say  folks  maun  submit  —  I  will  try." 

And  he  had  been  silent  from  that  moment  until  com- 
pelled to  answer  the  necessary  questions  we  have  already 
noticed.  Such  was  the  disconsolate  state  of  the  father. 

In  another  corner  of  the  cottage,  her  face  covered  by 
her  apron  'which  was  flung  over  it,  sat  the  mother,  — 
the  nature  of  her  grief  sufficiently  indicated  by  the 
wringing  of  her  hands  and  the  convulsive  agitation  of 
the  bosom  which  the  covering  could  not  conceal.  Two 
of  her  gossips,  officiously  whispering  into  her  ear  the 
commonplace  topic  of  resignation  under  irremediable 
misfortune,  seemed  as  if  they  were  endeavoring  to  stun 
the  grief  which  they  could  not  console. 

The  sorrow  of  the  children  was  mingled  with  wonder 
at  the  preparations  they  beheld  around  them,  and  at  the 
unusual  display  of  wheat  en  bread  and  wine,  which  the 
poorest  peasant,  or  fisher,  offers  to  the  guests  on  these 
mournful  occasions  ;  and  thus  their  grief  for  their  broth- 
er's death  was  almost  already  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
splendor  of  his  funeral. 

But  the  figure  of  the  old  grandmother  was  the  most 
remarkable  of  the  sorrowing  group.  Seated  on  her 


1 90  LITER  A  TURE. 

accustomed  chair,  with  her  usual  air  of  apathy  and  want 
of  interest  in  what  surrounded  her,  she  seemed  every 
now  and  then  mechanically  to  resume  the  motion  of 
twirling  her  spindle ;  then  to  look  towards  her  bosom 
for  the  distaff,  although  both  had  been  laid  aside.  She 
would  then  cast  her  eyes  about  as  if  surprised  at  miss- 
ing the  usual  implements  of  her  industry,  and  appear 
struck  by  the  black  color  of  the  gown  in  which  they 
had  dressed  her,  and  embarrassed  by  the  number  of 
persons  by  whom  she  was  surrounded.  Then,  finally, 
she  would  raise  her  head  with  a  ghastly  look,  and  fix 
her  eyes  upon  the  bed  which  contained  the  coffin  of  her 
grandson,  as  if  she  had  at  once,  and  for  the  first  time, 
acquired  sense  to  comprehend  her  inexpressible  calamity. 
These  alternate  feelings  of  embarrassment,  wonder,  and 
grief,  seemed  to  succeed  each  other  more  than  once 
upon  her  torpid  features.  But  she  spoke  not  a  word,  — 
neither  had  she  shed  a  tear,  —  nor  did  one  of  the  family 
understand,  either  from  look  or  expression,  to  what  ex- 
tent she  comprehended  the  uncommon  bustle  around 
her.  Thus  she  sat  among  the  funeral  assembly  like  a 
connecting-link  between  the  surviving  mourners  and  the 
dead  corpse  which  they  bewailed,  —  a  being  in  whom 
the  light  of  existence  was  already  obscured  by  the  en- 
croaching shadows  of  death.  .  .  . 

To  return  from  a  digression  which  can  only  serve  to 
introduce  the  honest  clergyman  more  particularly  to  our 
readers,  Mr.  Blattergowl  had  no  sooner  entered  the  hut, 
and  received  the  mute  and  melancholy  salutations  of 
the  company  whom  it  contained  than  he  edged  himself 
towards  the  unfortunate  father,  and  seemed  to  endeavor 
to  slide  in  a  few  words  of  condolence  or  of  consolation. 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  19 1 

But  the  old  man  was  incapable  as  yet  of  receiving 
either ;  he  nodded,  however,  gruffly,  and  shook  the 
clergyman's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  his  good  inten- 
tions, but  was  either  unable  or  unwilling  to  make  any 
verbal  reply. 

The  minister  next  passed  to  the  mother,  moving  along 
the  floor  as  slowly,  silently,  and  gradually,  as  if  he  had 
been  afraid  that  the  ground  would,  like  unsafe  ice,  break 
beneath  his  feet,  or  that  the  first  echo  of  a  footstep  was 
to  dissolve  some  magic  spell,  and  plunge  the  hut,  with  all 
its  inmates,  into  a  subterranean  abyss.  The  tenor  of 
what  he  had  said  to  the  poor  woman  could  only  be  judged 
by  her  answers,  as,  half-stifled  by  sobs  ill-repressed,  and 
by  the  covering  which  she  still  kept  over  her  counte- 
nance, she  faintly  answered  at  each  pause  in  his  speech  — 
"  Yes,  sir,  yes !  —  Ye  're  very  gude  —  ye  're  very  gude  !  — 
Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt !  —  It's  our  duty  to  submit ! —  But, 
O  dear !  my  poor  Steenie !  the  pride  o'  my  very  heart, 
that  was  sae  handsome  and  comely,  and  a  help  to  his 
family,  and  a  comfort  to  us  a',  and  a  pleasure  to  a'  that 
lookit  on  him  !  —  Oh,  my  bairn  !  my  bairn  !  my  bairn  ! 
what  for  is  thou  lying  there  !  —  and  eh  !  what  for  am  I 
left  to  greet  for  ye !  " 

There  was  no  contending  with  this  burst  of  sorrow 
and  natural  affection.  Oldbuck  had  repeated  recourse 
to  his  snuff-box  to  conceal  the  tears  which,  despite  his 
shrewd  and  caustic  temper,  were  apt  to  start  on  such  oc- 
casions. The  female  assistants  whimpered,  the  men  held 
their  bonnets  to  their  faces,  and  spoke  apart  with  each 
other.  The  clergyman,  meantime,  addressed  his  ghostly 
consolation  to  the  aged  grandmother.  At  first  she 
listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  to  what  he  said,  with  the 


192  LITERATURE. 

apathy  of  her  usual  unconsciousness.  But  as,  in  press- 
ing this  theme,  he  approached  so  near  to  her  ear,  that 
the  sense  of  his  words  became  distinctly  intelligible  to 
her,  though  unheard  by  those  who  stood  more  distant, 
her  countenance  at  once  assumed  that  stern  and  expres- 
sive cast  which  characterized  her  intervals  of  intelligence. 
She  drew  up  her  head  and  body,  shook  her  head  in  a 
manner  that  showed  at  least  impatienpe,  if  not  scorn  of 
his  counsel,  and  waved  her  hand  slightly,  but  with  a 
gesture  so  expressive,  as  to  indicate  to  all  who  witnessed 
it  a  marked  and  disdainful  rejection  of  the  ghostly  con- 
solation proffered  to  her.  The  minister  stepped  back  as 
if  repulsed,  and,  by  lifting  gently  and  dropping  his  hand, 
seemed  to  show  at  once  wonder,  sorrow,  and  compassion 
for  her  dreadful  state  of  mind.  The  rest  of  the  company 
sympathized,  and  a  stifled  whisper  went  through  them, 
indicating  how  much  her  desperate  and  determined  man- 
ner impressed  them  with  awe  and  even  horror.  .  .  . 

The  coffin,  covered  with  a  pall,  and  supported  upon 
handspikes  by  the  nearest  relatives,  now  only  waited  the 
father  to  support  the  head,  as  is  customary.  Two  or 
three  of  these  privileged  persons  spoke  to  him,  but  he 
only  answered  by  shaking  his  hands  and  his  head  in 
token  of  refusal.  With  better  intention  than  judgment, 
the  friends,  who  considered  this  as  an  act  of  duty  on  the 
part  of  the  living,  and  of  decency  towards  the  deceased, 
would  have  proceeded  to  enforce  their  request,  had  not 
Oldbuck  interfered  between  the  distressed  father  and 
his  well-meaning  tormentors,  and  informed  them,  that  he 
himself,  as  landlord  and  master  to  the  deceased,  "  would 
carry  his  head  to  the  grave."  In  spite  of  the  sorrowful 
occasion,  the  hearts  of  the  relatives  swelled  within  them 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  193 

at  so  marked  a  distinction  on  the  part  of  the  laird  ;  and 
old  Alison  Breck,  who  was  present  among  other  fish- 
women,  swore  almost  aloud,  "  His  honor  Monkbarns 
should  never  want  sax  warp  of  oysters  in  the  season  (of 
which  fish  he  was  understood  to  be  fond),  if  she  should 
gang  to  sea  and  dredge  for  them  hersell  in  the  foulest 
wind  that  ever  blew."  And  such  is  the  temper  of  the 
Scottish  common  people,  that,  by  this  instance  of  com- 
pliance with  their  customs,  and  respect  for  their  persons, 
Mr.  Oldbuck  gained  more  popularity  than  by  all  the 
sums  which  he  had  yearly  distributed  in  the  parish  for 
purposes  of  private  or  general  charity. 

The  sad  procession  now  moved  slowly  forward,  pre- 
ceded by  the  beadles,  or  saulies,  with  their  batons,  — 
miserable-looking  old  men,  tottering  as  if  on  the  edge 
of  that  grave  to  which  they  were  marshalling  another, 
and  clad,  according  to  Scottish  guise,  with  threadbare 
black  coats,  and  hunting-caps,  decorated  with  rusty 
crape.  Monkbarns  would  probably  have  remonstrated 
against  this  superfluous  expense,  had  he  been  consulted  ; 
but,  in  doing  so,  he  would  have  given  more  offence  than 
he  gained  popularity  by  condescending  to  perform  the 
office  of  chief  mourner.  Of  this  he  was  quite  aware, 
and  wisely  withheld  rebuke,  where  rebuke  and  advice 
would  have  been  equally  unavailing.  In  truth,  the 
Scottish  peasantry  are  still  infected  with  that  rage  for 
funeral  ceremonial,  which  once  distinguished  the  gran- 
dees of  the  kingdom  so  much,  that  a  sumptuary  law 
was  made  by  the  Parliament  of  Scotland  for  the  pur- 
pose of  restraining  it ;  and  I  have  known  many  in  the 
lowest  stations,  who  have  denied  themselves  not  merely 
the  comforts,  but  almost  the  necessaries  of  life,  in  order 


1 94  UTERA  TURE. 

to  save  such  a  sum  of  money  as  might  enable  their 
surviving  friends  to  bury  them  like  Christians,  as  they 
termed  it ;  nor  could  their  faithful  executors  be  pre- 
vailed upon,  though  equally  necessitous,  to  turn  to  the 
use  and  maintenance  of  the  living,  the  money  vainly 
wasted  upon  the  interment  of  the  dead. 

The  procession  to  the  churchyard,  at  about  half-a- 
mile's  distance,  was  made  with  the  mournful  solemnity 
usual  on  these  occasions,  —  the  body  was  consigned  to 
its  parent  earth,  —  and  when  the  labor  of  the  grave- 
diggers  had  filled  up  the  trench,  and  covered  it  with 
fresh  sod,  Mr.  Oldbuck,  taking  his  hat  off,  saluted  the 
assistants,  who  had  stood  by  in  melancholy  silence,  and 
with  that  adieu  dispersed  the  mourners.  .  .  . 

The  coffin  had  been  borne  from  the  place  where  it 
rested.  The  mourners,  in  regular  gradation,  according 
to  their  rank  or  their  relationship  to  the  deceased,  had 
filed  from  the  cottage,  while  the  younger  male  children 
were  led  along  to  totter  after  the  bier  of  their  brother, 
and  to  view  with  wonder  a  ceremonial  which  they  could 
hardly  comprehend.  The  female  gossips  next  rose  to 
depart,  and,  with  consideration  for  the  situation  of  the 
parents,  carried  along  with  them  the  girls  of  the  family, 
to  give  the  unhappy  pair  time  and  opportunity  to  open 
their  hearts  to  each  other,  and  soften  their  grief  by 
communicating  it.  But  their  kind  intention  was  with- 
out effect.  The  last  of  them  had  darkened  the  entrance 
of  the  cottage,  as  she  went  out,  and  drawn  the  door 
softly  behind  her,  when  the  father,  first  ascertaining  by 
a  hasty  glance  that  no  stranger  remained,  started  up, 
clasped  his  hands  wildly  above  his  head,  uttered  a  cry  of 
the  despair  which  he  had  hitherto  repressed,  and,  in  all 


READINGS  FROM  SCOl'T.  195 

the  impotent  impatience  of  grief,  half  rushed  half  stag- 
gered forward  to  the  bed  on  which  the  coffin  had  been 
deposited,  threw  himself  down  upon  it,  and  smothering, 
as  it  were,  his  head  among  the  bed-clothes,  gave  vent 
to  the  full  passion  of  his  sorrow.  It  was  in  vain  that 
the  wretched  mother,  terrified  by  the  vehemence  of  her 
husband's  affliction  —  affliction  still  more  fearful  as  agi- 
tating a  man  of  hardened  manners  and  a  robust  frame 
—  suppressed  her  own  sobs  and  tears,  and,  pulling  him 
by  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  implored  him  to  rise  and  re- 
member, that,  though  one  was  removed,  he  had  still  a 
wife  and  children  to  comfort  and  support.  The  appeal 
came  at  too  early  a  period  of  his  anguish,  and  was 
totally  unattended  to  ;  he  continued  to  remain  prostrate, 
indicating,  by  sobs  so  bitter  and  violent  that  they 
shook  the  bed  and  partition  against  which  it  rested,  by 
clenched  hands  which  grasped  the  bed-clothes,  and  by 
the  vehement  and  convulsive  motion  of  his  legs,  how 
deep  and  how  terrible  was  the  agony  of  a  father's 
sorrow. 

"  O,  what  a  day  is  this !  what  a  day  is  this ! "  said  the 
poor  mother,  her  womanish  affliction  already  exhausted 
by  sobs  and  tears,  and  now  almost  lost  in  terror  for  the 
state  in  which  she  beheld  her  husband — "O,  what  an 
hour  is  this !  and  naebody  to  help  a  poor  lone  woman  - 
O,  gudemither,  could  ye  but  speak  a  word  to  him !  — 
wad  ye  but  bid  him  be  comforted!  " 

To  her  astonishment,  and  even  to  the  increase  of  her 
fear,  her  husband's  mother  heard  and  answered  the  ap- 
peal. She  rose  and  walked  across  the  floor  without  sup- 
port, and  without  much  apparent  feebleness,  and  stand- 
ing by  the  bed  on  which  her  son  had  extended  himself, 


ig6  LITERATURE. 

she  said,  "  Rise  up,  my  son,  and  sorrow  not  for  him  that 
is  beyond  sin  and  sorrow  and  temptation.  Sorrow  is  for 
those  that  remain  in  this  vale  of  sorrow  and  darkness 
-  I,  wha  dinna  sorrow,  and  wha  canna  sorrow  for  ony 
ane,  hae  maist  need  that  ye  should  a'  sorrow  for  me." 

The  voice  of  his  mother,  not  heard  for  years  as  taking 
part  in  the  active  duties  of  life,  or  offering  advice  or 
consolation,  produced  its  effect  upon  her  son.  He  as- 
sumed a  sitting  posture  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  his 
appearance,  attitude,  and  gestures,  changed  from  those 
of  angry  despair  to  deep  grief  and  dejection.  The 
grandmother  retired  to  her  nook,  the  mother  mechan- 
ically took  in  her  hand  her  tattered  Bible,  and  seemed 
to  read,  though  her  eyes  were  drowned  with  tears.  — 
From  "  The  Antiquary." 

THE  TRIAL  AND  EXECUTION  OF  FERGUS  MAC-IVOR. 

Edward,  attended  by  his  former  servant  Alick  Pol- 
warth  who  had  re-entered  his  service  at  Edinburgh, 
reached  Carlisle  while  the  commission  of  Oyer  and  Ter- 
miner  on  his  unfortunate  associates  was  yet  sitting.  He 
had  pushed  forward  in  haste,  —  not,  alas  !  with  the  most 
distant  hope  of  saving  Fergus,  but  to  see  him  for  the 
last  time.  I  ought  to  have  mentioned,  that  he  had  fur- 
nished funds  for  the  defence  of  the  prisoners  in  the  most 
liberal  manner,  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  the  day  of  trial 
was  fixed..  A  solicitor,  and  the  first  counsel,  accordingly 
attended ;  but  it  was  upon  the  same  footing  on  which 
the  first  physicians  are  usually  summoned  to  the  bedside 
of  some  dying  man  of  rank ;  —  the  doctors  to  take  the 
advantage  of  some  incalculable  chance  of  an  exertion  of 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  197 

nature  —  the  lawyers  to  avail  themselves  of  the  barely 
possible  occurrence  of  some  legal  flaw.  Edward  pressed 
into  the  court,  which  was  extremely  crowded ;  but  by 
his  arriving  from  the  north,  and  his  extreme  eagerness 
and  agitation,  it  was  supposed  he  was  a  relation  of  the 
prisoners,  and  people  made  way  for  him.  It  was  the 
third  sitting  of  the  court,  and  there  were  two  men  at 
the  bar.  The  verdict  of  GUILTY  was  already  pronounced. 
Edward  just  glanced  at  the  bar  during  the  momentous 
pause  which  ensued.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
stately  form  and  noble  features  of  Fergus  Mac-Ivor, 
although  his  dress  was  squalid,  and  his  countenance 
tinged  with  the  sickly  yellow  hue  of  long  and  close  im- 
prisonment. By  his  side  was  Evan  Maccombich.  Ed- 
ward felt  sick  and  dizzy  as  he  gazed  on  them ;  but  he 
was  recalled  to  himself  as  the  Clerk  of  Arraigns  pro- 
nounced the  solemn  words  :  "  Fergus  Mac-Ivor  of  Glen- 
naquoich,  otherwise  called  Vich  Ian  Vohr,  and  Evan 
Mac- Ivor,  in  the  Dhu  of  Tarrascleugh,  otherwise  called 
Evan  Dhu,  otherwise  called  Evan  Maccombich,  or  Evan 
Dhu  Maccombich  —  you,  and  each  of  you,  stand  at- 
tainted of  high  treason.  What  have  you  to  say  for 
yourselves  why  the  Court  should  not  pronounce  judg- 
ment against  you,  that  you  die  according  to  law  ?  " 

Fergus,  as  the  presiding  Judge  was  putting  on  the 
fatal  cap  of  judgment,  placed  his  own  bonnet  upon  his 
head,  regarded  him  with  a  steadfast  and  stern  look,  and 
replied  in  a  firm  voice,  "  I  cannot  let  this  numerous  audi- 
ence suppose  that  to  such  an  appeal  I  have  no  answer 
to  make.  But  what  I  have  to  say,  you  would  not  bear 
to  hear,  for  my  defence  would  be  your  condemnation. 
Proceed,  then,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  do  what  is  per- 


198  LITERATURE. 

mitted  to  you.  Yesterday,  and  the  day  before,  you  have 
condemned  loyal  and  honorable  blood  to  be  poured  forth 
like  water.  Spare  not  mine.  Were  that  of  all  my 
ancestors  in  my  veins,  I  would  have  perilled  it  in  this 
quarrel."  He  resumed  his  seat,  and  refused  again  to 
rise. 

Evan  Maccombich  looked  at  him  with  great  earnest- 
ness, and,  rising  up,  seemed  anxious  to  speak ;  but  the 
confusion  of  the  court,  and  the  perplexity  arising  from 
thinking  in  a  language  different  from  that  in  which  he 
was  to  express  himself,  kept  him  silent.  There  was  a 
murmur  of  compassion  among  the  spectators,  from  the 
idea  that  the  poor  fellow  intended  to  plead  the  influence 
of  his  superior  as  an  excuse  for  his  crime.  The  Judge 
commanded  silence,  and  encouraged  Evan  to  proceed. 

"  I  was  only  ganging  to  say,  my  Lord,"  said  Evan,  in 
what  he  meant  to  be  an  insinuating  manner,  "  that  if 
your  excellent  honor,  and  the  honorable  Court,  would 
let  Vich  Ian  Vohr  go  free  just  this  once,  and  let  him 
gae  back  to  France,  and  no  to  trouble  King  George's 
government  again,  that  ony  six  o'  the  very  best  of  his 
clan  will  be  willing  to  be  justified  in  his  stead  ;  and  if 
you  '11  just  let  me  gae  down  to  Glennaquoich,  I  '11  fetch 
them  up  to  ye  myself,  to  head  or  hang,  and  you  may 
begin  wi'  me  the  very  first  man." 

Notwithstanding  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  a  sort 
of  laugh  was  heard  in  the  court  at  the  extraordinary 
nature  of  the  proposal.  The  Judge  checked  this  inde- 
cency, and  Evan,  looking  sternly  around,  when  the  mur- 
mur abated,  "  If  the  Saxon  gentlemen  are  laughing,"  he 
said,  "  because  a  poor  man,  such  as  me,  thinks  my  life, 
or  the  life  of  six  of  my  degree,  is  worth  that  of  Vich 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  199 

Ian  Vohr,  it 's  like  enough  they  may  be  very  right ;  but 
if  they  laugh  because  they  think  I  would  not  keep  my 
word,  and  come  back  to  redeem  him,  I  can  tell  them 
they  ken  neither  the  heart  of  a  Hielandman,  nor  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman." 

There  was  no  further  inclination  to  laugh  among  the 
audience,  and  a  dead  silence  ensued. 

The  Judge  then  pronounced  upon  both  prisoners  the 
sentence  of  the  law  of  high  treason,  with  all  its  horrible 
accompaniments.  The  execution  was  appointed  for  the 
ensuing  day.  "  For  you,  Fergus  Mac-Ivor/'  continued 
the  Judge,  "  I  can  hold  out  no  hope  of  mercy.  You 
must  prepare  against  to-morrow  for  your  last  sufferings 
here,  and  your  great  audit  hereafter." 

"  I  desire  nothing  else,  my  lord,"  answered  Fergus,  in 
the  same  manly  and  firm  tone. 

The  hard  eyes  of  Evan,  which  had  been  perpetually 
bent  on  his  Chief,  were  moistened  with  a  tear.  "  For 
you,  poor  ignorant  man,"  continued  the  Judge,  "who, 
following  the  ideas  in  which  you  have  been  educated, 
have  this  day  given  us  a  striking  example  how  the  loy- 
alty due  to  the  king  and  state  alone,  is,  from  your  un- 
happy ideas  of  clanship,  transferred  to  some  ambitious 
individual,  who  ends  by  making  you  the  tool  of  his 
crimes  —  for  you,  I  say,  I  feel  so  much  compassion,  that 
if  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  petition  for  grace,  I 
will  endeavor  to  procure  it  for  you.  Otherwise  " 

"  Grace  me  no  grace,"  said  Evan  ;  "  since  you  are  to 
shed  Vich  Ian  Vohr's  blood,  the  only  favor  I  would 
accept  from  you,  is  —  to  bid  them  loose  my  hands  and 
gie  me  my  claymore,  and  bide  you  just  a  minute  sitting 
where  you  are  !  " 


2  OO  LITER  A  TURE. 

"  Remove  the  prisoners,"  said  the  Judge  ;  "  his  blood 
be  upon  his  own  head."  .  .  . 

The  place  of  Fergus'  confinement  was  a  gloomy  and 
vaulted  apartment  in  the  central  part  of  the  Castle — a 
huge  old  tower,  supposed  to  be  of  great  antiquity,  and 
surrounded  by  outworks,  seemingly  of  Henry  VIII's 
time,  or  somewhat  later.  The  grating  of  the  large  old- 
fashioned  bars  and  bolts,  withdrawn  for  the  purpose  of 
admitting  Edward,  was  answered  by  the  clash  of  chains, 
as  the  unfortunate  Chieftain,  strongly  and  heavily  fet- 
tered, shuffled  along  the  stone  floor  of  his  prison  to  fling 
himself  into  his  friend's  arms.  .  .  . 

Soon  after,  a  file  of  soldiers  entered  with  a  black- 
smith, who  struck  the  fetters  from  the  legs  of  the. 
prisoners. 

"  You  see  the  compliment  they  pay  to  our  Highland 
strength  and  courage  —  we  have  lain  chained  here  like 
wild  beasts,  till  our  legs  are  cramped  into  palsy,  and 
when  they  free  us,  they  send  six  soldiers  with  loaded 
muskets  to  prevent  our  taking  the  castle  by  storm !  " 

Edward  afterwards  learned  that  these  severe  precau- 
tions had  been  taken  in  consequence  of  a  desperate 
attempt  of  the  prisoners  to  escape,  in  which  they  had 
very  nearly  succeeded. 

Shortly  afterwards  the  drums  of  the  garrison  beat  to 
arms.  "  This  is  the  last- turn  out,"  said  Fergus,  "that  I 
shall  hear  and  obey."  .  .  . 

"  We  part  not  here  !  "  said  Waverley. 

"  O  yes,  we  do  ;  you  must  come  no  farther.  Not  that 
I  fear  what  is  to  follow  for  myself,"  he  said  proudly: 
"  Nature  has  her  tortures  as  well  as  art ;  and  how  happy 
should  we  think  the  man  who  escapes  from  the  throes 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  2OI 

of  a  mortal  and  painful  disorder,  in  the  space  of  a  short 
half  hour  ?  And  this  matter,  spin  it  out  as  they  will, 
cannot  last  longer.  But  what  a  dying  man  can  suffer 
firmly,  may  kill  a  living  friend  to  look  upon.  This  same 
law  of  high  treason,"  he  continued,  with  astonishing 
firmness  and  composure,  "  is  one  of  the  blessings,  Ed- 
ward, with  which  your  free  country  has  accommodated 
poor  old  Scotland :  her  own  jurisprudence,  as  I  have 
heard,  was  much  milder.  But  I  suppose  one  day  or 
other  —  when  there  are  no  longer  any  wild  Highlanders 
to  benefit  by  its  tender  mercies  —  they  will  blot  it  from 
their  records,  as  levelling  them  with  a  nation  of  canni- 
bals. The  mummery,  too,  of  exposing  the  senseless 
head  —  they  have  not  the  wit  to  grace  mine  with  a 
paper  coronet ;  there  would  be  some  satire  in  that, 
Edward.  I  hope  they  will  set  it  on  the  Scotch  gate 
though,  that  I  may  look,  even  after  death,  to  the  blue 
hills  of  my  own  country,  which  I  love  so  dearly."  .  .  . 
An  officer  now  appeared,  and  intimated  that  the  High 
Sheriff  and  his  attendants  waited  before  the  gate  of  the 
Castle,  to  claim  the  bodies  of  Fergus  Mac-Ivor  and  Evan 
Maccombich.  "  I  come,"  said  Fergus.  Accordingly, 
supporting  Edward  by  the  arm,  and  followed  by  Evan 
Dhu  and  the  priest,  he  moved  down  the  stairs  of  the 
tower,  the  soldiers  bringing  up  the  rear.  The  court 
was  occupied  by  a  squadron  of  dragoons  and  a  battalion 
of  infantry,  drawn  up  in  hollow  square.  Within  their 
ranks  was  the  sledge,  or  hurdle,  on  which  the  prisoners 
were  to  be  drawn  to  the  place  of  execution,  about  a 
mile  distant  from  Carlisle.  It  was  painted  black,  and 
drawn  by  a  white  horse.  At  one  end  of  the  vehicle  sat 
the  Executioner,  a  horrid-looking  fellow,  as  beseemed  his 


2O2  LITERA  TURE. 

trade,  with  the  broad  axe  in  his  hand ;  at  the  other  end, 
next  the  horse,  was  an  empty  seat  for  two  persons. 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  Gothic  archway,  that  opened 
on  the  drawbridge,  were  seen  on  horseback  the  High 
Sheriff  and  his  attendants,  whom  the  etiquette  betwixt 
the  civil  and  military  powers  did  not  permit  to  come 
farther.  "  This  is  well  GOT  UP  for  a  closing  scene,"  said 
Fergus,  smiling  disdainfully  as  he  gazed  around  upon 
the  apparatus  of  terror.  Evan  Dhu  exclaimed  with 
some  eagerness,  after  looking  at  the  dragoons,  "  These 
are  the  very  chields  that  galloped  off  at  Gladsmuir, 
before  we  could  kill  a  dozen  o'  them.  They  look  bold 
enough  now,  however."  The  priest  entreated  him  to  be 
silent. 

The  sledge  now  approached,  and  Fergus,  turning 
round,  embraced  Waverley,  kissed  him  on  each  side  of  the 
face,  and  stepped  nimbly  into  his  place.  Evan  sat  down 
by  his  side.  The  priest  was  to  follow  in  a  carriage  be- 
longing to  his  patron,  the  Catholic  gentleman  at  whose 
house  Flora  resided.  As  Fergus  waved  his  hand  to 
Edward,  the  ranks  closed  around  the  sledge,  and  the 
whole  procession  began  to  move  forward.  There  was  a 
momentary  stop  at  the  gate-way,  while  the  governor  of 
the  Castle  and  the  High  Sheriff  went  through  a  short 
ceremony,  the  military  officer  there  delivering  over  the 
persons  of  the  criminals  to  the  civil  power.  "  God  save 
King  George  !  "  said  the  High  Sheriff.  When  the  for- 
mality concluded,  Fergus  stood  erect  in  the  sledge,  and, 
with  a  firm  and  steady  voice,  replied,  "  God  save  King 
James:"  These  were  the  last  words  which  Waverley 
heard  him  speak. 

The   procession  resumed   its  march,   and  the  sledge 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  203 

vanished  from  beneath  the  portal,  under  which  it  had 
stopped  for  an  instant.  The  dead-march  was  then 
heard,  and  its  melancholy  sounds  were  mingled  with 
those  of  a  muffled  peal,  tolled  from  the  neighboring 
cathedral.  The  sound  of  the  military  music  died  away 
as  the  procession  moved  on  —  the  sullen  clang  of  the  bells 
was  soon  heard  to  sound  alone.  —  Front  "  Waverley" 


SCOTT  S  REFLECTIONS  ON  HIS  OWN  LIFE. 

Abbotsford,  1821. 

In  truth,  I  have  long  given  up  poetry.  I  have  had 
my  day  with  the  public  ;  and  being  no  great  believer  in 
poetical  immortality,  I  was  very  well  pleased  to  rise  a 
winner,  without  continuing  the  game,  till  I  was  beggared 
of  any  credit  I  had  acquired.  Besides,  I  felt  the  prudence 
of  giving  way  before  the  more  forcible  and  powerful 
genius  of  Byron.  If  I  were  either  greedy,  or  jealous  of 
poetical  fame  —  and  both  are  strangers  to  my  nature  — 
I  might  comfort  myself  with  the  thought,  that  I  would 
hesitate  to  strip  myself  to  the  contest  so  fearlessly  as 
Byron  does  ;  or  to  command  the  wonder  and  terror  of  the 
public,  by  exhibiting,  in  my  own  person,  the  sublime  atti- 
tude of  the  dying  gladiator.  But  with  the  old  frankness 
of  twenty  years  since,  I  will  fairly  own,  that  this  same 
delicacy  of  mine  may  arise  more  from  conscious  want  of 
vigor  and  inferiority,  than  from  a  delicate  dislike  to  the 
nature  of  the  conflict.  At  any  rate,  there  is  a  time  for 
everything,  and  without  swearing  oaths  to  it,  I  think  my 
time  for  poetry  has  gone  by.  .  .  . 

When    I    look    around  me,  and  consider  how    many 
changes   you   will    see   in   feature,    form,  and   fashion, 


204  LITERATURE. 

amongst  all  you  knew  and  loved ;  and  how  much,  no 
sudden  squall,  or  violent  tempest,  but  the  slow  and 
gradual  progress  of  life's  long  voyage,  has  severed  all 
the  gallant  fellowships  whom  you  left  spreading  their 
sails  to  the  morning  breeze,  I  really  am  not  sure  that 
you  would  have  much  pleasure. 

The  gay  and  wild  romance  of  life  is  over  with  all  of 
us.  The  real,  dull,  and  stern  history  of  humanity  has 
made  a  far  greater  progress  over  our  heads  ;  and  age, 
dark  and  unlovely,  has  laid  his  crutch  over  the  stoutest 
fellow's  shoulders.  One  thing  your  old  society  may 
boast,  that  they  have  all  run  their  course  with  honor, 
and  almost  all  with  distinction  ;  and  the  brother  suppers 
of  Frederick  Street  have  certainly  made  a  very  consider- 
able figure  in  the  world,  as  was  to  be  expected,  from  her 
talents  under  whose  auspices  they  were  assembled. 

One  of  the  most  pleasant  sights  which  you  would  see 
in  Scotland,  as  it  now  stands,  would  be  your  brother 
George  in  possession  of  the  most  beautiful  and  romantic 
place  in  Clydesdale  —  Corehouse.  I  have  promised 
often  to  go  out  with  him,  and  assist  him  with  my  deep 
experience  as  a  planter  and  landscape  gardener.  I 
promise  you  my  oaks  will  outlast  my  laurels  ;  and  I 
pique  myself  more  upon  my  compositions  for  manure 
than  on  any  other  compositions  whatsoever  to  which  I 
was  ever  accessory.  But  so  much  does  business  of  one 
sort  or  other  engage  us  both,  that  we  never  have  been 
able  to  fix  a  time  which  suited  us  both ;  and  with  the 
utmost  wish  to  make  out  the  party,  perhaps  we  never 
may. 

This  is  a  melancholy  letter,  but  it  is  chiefly  so  from 
the  sad  tone  of  yours — who  have  had  such  real  disas- 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT.  2O5 

ters  to  lament  —  while  mine  is  only  the  humorous  sad- 
ness, which  a  retrospect  on  human  life  is  sure  to  produce 
in  the  most  prosperous.  For  my  own  course  of  life,  I 
have  only  to  be  ashamed  of  its  prosperity,  and  afraid  of 
its  termination ;  for  I  have  little  reason,  arguing  on  the 
doctrine  of  chances,  to  hope  that  the  same  good  fortune 
will  attend  me  for  ever.  I  have  had  an  affectionate  and 
promising  family,  many  friends,  few  unfriends,  and  I 
think,  no  enemies  —  and  more  of  fame  and  fortune  than 
mere  literature  ever  procured  for  a  man  before. 

I  dwell  among  my  own  people,  and  have  many  whose 
happiness  is  dependent  on  me,  and  which  I  study  to  the 
best  of  my  power.  I  trust  my  temper,  which  you  know 
is  by  nature  good  and  easy,  has  not  been  spoiled  by  flat- 
tery or  prosperity  ;  and  therefore  I  have  escaped  entirely 
that  irritability  of  disposition  which  I  think  is  planted, 
like  the  slave,  in  the  poet's  chariot,  to  prevent  his  enjoy- 
ing his  triumph. 

Should  things,  therefore,  change  with  me — and  in 
these  times,  or  indeed  in  any  times,  such  change  is  to 
be  apprehended  —  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  surrender 
these  adventitious  advantages,  as  I  would  my  upper 
dress,  as  something  extremely  comfortable,  but  which  I 
can  make  shift  to  do  without. 

Edinburgh,  1825. 

For  myself,  if  things  go  badly  in  London,  the  magic 
wand  of  the  Unknown  will  be  shivered  in  his  grasp. 
He  must  then,  faith,  be  termed  the  Too-well-known. 
The  feast  of  fancy  will  be  over  with  the  feeling  of  inde- 
pendence. He  shall  no  longer  have  the  delight  of  wak- 
ing in  the  morning  with  bright  ideas  in  his  mind,  hasten 
to  commit  them  to  paper,  and  count  them  monthly,  as 


2O6  LITERATURE. 

the  means  of  planting  such  scaurs,  and  purchasing  such 
wastes ;  replacing  dreams  of  fiction  by  other  prospective 
visions  of  walks  by 

"  Fountain  heads,  and  pathless  groves; 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves." 

This  cannot  be ;  but  I  may  work  substantial  husbandry, 
i.  e.,  write  history,  and  such  concerns.  They  will  not 
be  received  with  the  same  enthusiasm  ;  at  least  I  much 
doubt,  the  general  knowledge  that  an  author  must  write 
for  his  bread,  at  least  for  improving  his  pittance,  de- 
grades him  and  his  productions  in  the  public  eye.  He 
falls  into  the  second-rate  rank  of  estimation  :  — 

"  While  the  harness  sore  galls,  and  the  spurs  his  side  goad, 
The  high-mettled  racer's  a  hack  on  the  road." 

It  is  a  bitter  thought ;  but  if  tears  start  at  it,  let  them 
flow.  My  heart  clings  to  the  place  I  have  created. 
There  is  scarce  a  tree  on  it  that  does  not  owe  its. being 
to  me. 

What  a  life  mine  has  been !  —  half  educated,  almost 
wholly  neglected,  or  left  to  myself ;  stuffing  my  head 
with  most  nonsensical  trash,  and  undervalued  by  most 
of  my  companions  for  a  time  ;  getting  forward,  and  held 
a  bold  and  clever  fellow,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  all 
who  thought  me  a  mere  dreamer ;  broken-hearted  for 
two  years  ;  my  heart  handsomely  pieced  again  ;  but  the 
crack  will  remain  till  my  dying  day.  Rich  and  poor 
four  or  five  times  ;  once  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  yet  opened 
a  new  source  of  wealth  almost  overflowing.  Now  to  be 
broken  in  my  pitch  of  pride,  and  nearly  winged  (unless 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT. 


good  news  should  come),  because  London  chooses  to  be 
in  an  uproar,  and  in  the  tumult  of  bulls  and  bears,  a 
poor  inoffensive  lion  like  myself  is  pushed  to  the  wall. 
But  what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  God  knows  ;  and  so 
ends  the  catechism. 

Nobody  in  the  end  can  lose  a  penny  by  me  —  that  is 
one  comfort.  Men  will  think  pride  has  had  a  fall.  Let 
them  indulge  their  own  pride  in  thinking  that  my  fall 
will  make  them  higher,  or  seem  so  at  least.  I  have  the 
satisfaction  to  recollect  that  my  prosperity  has  been  of 
advantage  to  many,  and  to  hope  that  some  at  least  will 
forgive  my  transient  wealth  on  account  of  the  innocence 
of  my  intentions,  and  my  real  wish  to  do  good  to  the 
poor.  Sad  hearts,  too,  at  Darnick,  and  in  the  cottages 
of  Abbotsford.  I  have  half  resolved  never  to  see  the 
place  again.  How  could  I  tread  my  hall  with  such 
a  diminished  crest  ?  How  live  a  poor  indebted  man, 
where  I  was  once  the  wealthy  —  the  honored  ?  I  was 
to  have  gone  there  on  Saturday  in  joy  and  prosperity  to 
receive  my  friends.  My  dogs  will  wait  for  me  in  vain. 
It  is  foolish  —  but  the  thoughts  of  parting  from  these 
dumb  creatures  have  moved  me  more  than  any  of  the 
painful  reflections  I  have  put  down.  Poor  things,  I 
must  get  them  kind  masters  !  There  may  be  yet  those 
who,  loving  me,  may  love  my  dog,  because  it  has  been 
mine.  I  must  end  these  gloomy  forebodings,  or  I  shall 
lose  the  tone  of  mind  with  which  men  should  meet  dis- 
tress. I  feel  my  dogs'  feet  on  my  knees.  I  hear  them 
whining  and  seeking  me  everywhere.  This  is  nonsense, 
but  it  is  what  they  would  do  could  they  know  how  things 
may  be.  An  odd  thought  strikes  me  —  When  I  die, 
will  the  journal  of  these  days  be  taken  out  of  the  ebony 


208  LITERATURE. 

cabinet  at  Abbotsford,  and  read  with  wonder,  that  the 
well-seeming  Baronet  should  ever  have  experienced  the 
risk  of  such  a  hitch  ?  Or  will  it  be  found  in  some  ob- 
scure lodging-house,  where  the  decayed  son  of  Chivalry 
had  hung  up  his  scutcheon,  and  where  one  or  two 
old  friends  will  look  grave,  and  whisper  to  each  other, 
"Poor  gentleman"  -"a  well-meaning  man"  - "  no- 
body's enemy  but  his  own  "  —  "  thought  his  parts  would 
never  wear  out"  -" family  poorly  left"  -"pity  he 
took  that  foolish  title."  Who  can  answer  this  question  ? 
Poor  Will  Laidlaw  —  Poor  Tom  Purdie  —  such  news 
will  wring  your  hearts,  and  many  a  poor  fellow  besides 
to  whom  my  prosperity  was  daily  bread.  —  From 
Lockharfs  "Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott" 


READINGS  FROM  SCOTT. 


209 


ADDITIONAL  READINGS. 

In  addition  to  the  foregoing  readings,  the  following 
selections  from  the  Waverley  novels  are  specially  recom- 
mended :  — 

1.  March  of  the  highland  army .     ("  Waverley,"  chap,  iii.) 

2.  Midnight  scene.     ("  Guy  Mannering,"  chap,  iii.) 
Servant  to  the  covenanters.     ("  Old  Mortality,"  chap,  xviii.) 
Helen  MacGregor    and  the    outlaws.     ("  Rob    Roy,"  chap. 

xxxi.) 
Prison  scene.     ("  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  chap,  xx.) 

6.  Trial  of  Rebecca.     ("  Ivanhoe,"  chap,  xxxvii.) 

7.  Death  of  George  Douglas.     ("  The  Abbot,"  chap,  xxxvii.) 

8.  King  Richard  at  the  tent  of  Saladin.      ("The    Talisman," 

chap,  xxviii.) 

9.  Wandering  Willie"* stale.     ("  Redgauntlet,"  letter  xi.) 

10.  Funeral  of  Lord  Ravenswood.       ("  The    Bride   of  Lammer- 
moor,"  chap,  ii.) 


SCOTT'S  COLLECTION  OF  PIPES. 


LORD  BYRON. 


LORD   BYRON, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  STUDY. 

By  JOHN  EBENEZER  BRYANT. 


BYRON  is  one  of  the  world's  great  poets ;  but,  like 
the  image  of  Nebuchadnezzar's  dream,  the  material  of 
his  greatness  is  not  all  fine  gold.  Besides  the  gold  there 
is  much  baser  metal,  as  "  brass  and  iron,"  and  there  is 
even  "  miry  clay."  But,  nevertheless,  a  chief  part  of 
Byron's  greatness  is  gold  —  "  fine  gold  "  —  like  the  head 
of  Nebuchadnezzar's  image ;  and  this  gold,  unlike  the 
gold  of  the  image,  will  not  "  crumble  to  pieces  "  and 
"  become  as  the  chaff  of  a  threshing  floor,"  but  will  en- 
dure as  long  as  anything  poetical  endures. 

George  Gordon  Byron,  afterwards  Lord  Byron,  was 
born  in  London,  January  22,  1788.  His  ancestry  on 
his  father's  side  was  of  the  bluest  aristocratical  English 
blood,  that  had  descended  in  an  unbroken  stream  through 
the  veins  of  knights  and  barons  from  the  time  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  downward,  until  it  flushed  his  own.  On 
his  mother's  side  his  ancestry  was  Scotch,  and  almost 
equally  distinguished,  for  his  mother  was  a  Miss  Catherine 
Gordon,  of  Gight,  in  Aberdeenshire,  who  traced  her  descent 
from  King  James  the  First  of  England  and  Sixth  of  Scot- 

215 


216  LITERATURE. 

land.  But  distinguished  though  his  ancestors  were,  he  in- 
herited from  them  something  more  than  name  and  station. 
His  father,  Captain  John  Byron,  who  died  when  his  son 
was  but  three  years  old,  was  a  spendthrift  and  a  heartless 
rake —  "  Mad  Jack  Byron  "  he  was  called.  His  grand- 
father was  an  admiral,  but  one  whose  adventures  were 
wild,  stirring,  and  unfortunate.  "  Foul- Weather  Jack" 
was  his  appropriate  sobriquet.  His  granduncle,  from 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  THE  ANCESTRAL  HOME  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

whom  he  inherited  his  title  and  estate,  was  a  notorious 
hard  liver,  known  as  the  "  wicked  lord."  His  mother, 
too,  was  a  woman  of  such  ill-balanced  character  that  in 
her  training  of  her  son  her  conduct  could  scarcely  have 
been  worse.  "  Byron,  your  mother  is  a  fool,"  a  school- 
fellow once  candidly  told  him.  "  I  know  it,"  was  his 
only  and  sad  reply.  With  such  antecedents  as  these  to 
influence  his  heredity,  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that 
much  of  what  is  eccentric  and  abnormal  in  Byron's  char- 
acter and  conduct  can  well  be  accounted  for.  His 


LORD  BYRON. 


217 


mother's  property  having  all  been  squandered  by  his 
worthless  father,  Byron's  younger  years  were  full  of 
poverty.  For  a  while  he  was  at  a  school  at  Aberdeen. 
At  ten  years  of  age  he  succeeded  to  his  title  and  estate, 
but  his  condition  at  the  time  was  but  little  improved 
thereby,  for  the  estate  was  heavily  encumbered.  In  his 
fourteenth  year  he  was  sent  to  the  famous  school  at 
Harrow.  His  years  at  Harrow  constituted  an  important 
epoch  in  his  life,  for  it  was  there  that  he  formed  the  most 
of  those  friendships,  all  of  them  honorable  and  honoring, 
for  which  his  career  is  so  remarkable.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  weakness  of  Byron's  character  in  regaid 
to  the  affections  which  he  experienced  for  women,  his 
affections  for  men,  when  once  he  placed  them,  were 
noble  and  enduring.  For  some  time  at  Harrow  he  was 
very  unhappy  ;  but  after  a  while  he  became  a  leader  in 
the  school,  and  then  his  life  was  perhaps  the  happiest  he 
ever  lived. 

In  1805,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  Byron  went  to  Cam- 
bridge. Here  his  old  friendships  were  continued,  and 
some  new  ones,  equally  commendable,  were  formed.  But 
neither  at  Harrow  nor  at  Cambridge  was  Byron  a  stu- 
dent in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  At  Harrow  he 
read  largely  of  history  and  biography,  but  at  Cambridge 
he  spent  but  little  time  in  serious  pursuits  of  any  sort. 
His  life  there  was,  indeed,  very  irregular.  But  he  prac- 
tised all  sorts  of  athletic  games,  rode,  boxed,  and  swam 
like  a  young  Spartan,  and  became  so  expert  with  the 
pistol  that  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  man  that  could  take 
care  of  himself  in  any  sort  of  evil  circumstances.  In 
1808  he  left  Cambridge,  and  then  spent  some  time  at 
Newstead  Abbey,  his  ancestral  home.  But  the  place 


2l8  LITERATURE. 

was  badly  out  of  repair,  and  he  had  no  money  to  spend 
towards  improving  it.  In  1809  he  became  of  age  and 
took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords.  But  want  of  money, 
reckless  living,  imprudent  adventures  and  attachments, 
disappointments  in  love  affairs,  and  numberless  other 
things  had  made  him  tired  of  life  —  tired  of  England 
especially ;  and  he  determined  to  go  abroad.  For  two 
years  he  rambled  about  in  Portugal,  Spain,  Sardinia, 
Sicily,  Malta,  Greece,  Turkey,  and  Asia  Minor.  In 
1811  he  returned  to  England  again.  But  in  the  mean- 
time several  friends  whom  he  loved  dearly  had  died,  and 
his  pecuniary  condition  had  but  little  improved,  so  that 
he  found  himself  even  more  miserable  than  he  was 
before  he  went  away. 

Byron's  talent  for  writing  poetry  was  a  natural  gift, 
an  endowment  of  genius,  and  it  gained  little  or  nothing 
from  culture.  It  was  a  disposition  of  the  mind  which,  once 
indulged  in,  became  a  habit.  During  all  his  life,  after 
once  the  habit  was  formed,  though  he  must  have  been 
more  occupied  than  most  men,  —  for  even  Byron's  idle 
pursuits  were  preoccupying  ones,  —  scarcely  a  month 
passed  that  he  did  not  write  something  that  has  since 
proved  to  be  a  permanent  addition  to  our  literature.  He 
began  to  publish  in  his  eighteenth  year,  his  first  produc- 
tion being  a  small  collection  of  poems,  which,  because  an 
elderly  friend  thought  one  of  them  somewhat  indelicate,  he 
afterward  destroyed.  In  his  nineteenth  year  he  published 
his  "  Hours  of  Idleness."  This  work,  though  juvenile 
and  weak  enough,  did  not  deserve  the  ferocious  attack 
which  some  time  after  was  made  upon  it  by  a  critic  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  supposed  to  be  Lord  Brougham. 
Byron  took  a  twelvemonth  to  prepare  his  reply,  but  when 


LORD  BYRON'.  221 

it  appeared  ("  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  "  — 
1809)  it  showed  to  the  Review,  and  to  all  the  world  be- 
side, that  a  new  literary  star  had  risen  in  the  firmament, 
the  fierce  brightness  of  whose  flame  was  likely  to  pale 
all  lesser  stars.  But  though  Byron  had  found  in  this 
production  what  was  perhaps  his  true  field  of  literary 
effort  —  satire  —  he  was  as  yet  too  inexperienced  in  the 
world  to  produce  either  satire  or  any  other  form  of  poetry 
on  original  lines.  While  he  was  upon  his  tour  abroad, 
however,  he  had  embodied  many  of  his  observations  and 
reflections  in  a  series  of  poems.  But  of  these  he  had 
thought  so  little  that  when  he  returned  to  London  he 
did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  hunt  up  a  publisher  for 
them.  A  friend,  however,  accidentally  discovered  them, 
and,  recognizing  their  worth,  persuaded  their  publication. 
In  February,  1812,  they  appeared — "  Childe  Harold, 
Cantos  I  and  II."  Their  impression  upon  the  public  was 
instantaneous  and  marvellous.  As  Byron  himself  so 
appositely  expressed  it  :  "I  awoke  one  morning  and 
found  myself  famous."  In  five  weeks  seven  editions  of 
the  book  were  exhausted.  And  not  only  did  he  win  this 
popular  success,  but  in  the  next  two  or  three  years  he 
produced  a  series  of  poems —  "The  Giaour,"  "The  Bride 
of  Abydos,"  "  The  Corsair,"  "Lara,"  the  "Hebrew  Mel- 
odies "  —  of  which  each  was,  if  possible,  more  popular 
than  its  predecessor.  Byron  for  the  time  being  was  the 
most  popular  author  the  English  people  had  ever  known. 
Even  Scott's  star,  bright  and  splendid  as  it  was  (for 
"  Marmion  "  and  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  were  still  on 
every  one's  lips),  was  bedimmed  beneath  the  fiercer 
splendor  of  this  newer  luminary.  Had  Byron  died  in 
1815  his  name  would  have  been  written  in  the  book  of 


222  LITERATURE. 

fame  as  that  of  the  most  popular  poet  that  ever  lived. 
And  yet  none  of  these  poems  that  Byron  had  so  far 
written,  not  even  the  first  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold," 
popular  as  they  were,  and  popular  as  they  still  are,  were 
of  that  force  and  fervency  which  all  enduring  great 
poems  must  possess.  A  poet  must  feel  and  think  deeply, 
must  suffer,  in  fact,  before  he  can  write  great  poetry. 
Byron  had  not  suffered  yet,  he  had  only  imagined  he  had. 
Byron's  relations  with  the  other  sex  were  the  great 
determining  facts  of  his  life.  And  as  his  poetry  was  the 
outcome  of  his  life  (perhaps  more  so  than  that  of  any 
other  great  poet  that  ever  lived)  —  the  expression  of 
what  he  saw  and  felt  and  reflected  upon  in  it  —  therefore 
these  relations  became  the  great  determining  factors  in 
the  production  of  his  poetry.  And  as  these  relations 
were  rarely  regulated  according  to  conventional  opinion, 
according  to  conventional  modes  of  thinking  and  acting, 
it  follows  that  it  is  impossible  to  sympathize  with  Byron, 
even  to  understand  him,  much  less  to  appreciate  him, 
unless  one  is  prepared  to  put  out  of  sight  and  forget  (for 
the  moment,  at  any  rate)  almost  every  settled  opinion 
and  rule  of  conduct  which,  in  respect  of  sexual  relation- 
ship, society  has  established  for  its  safe-guarding.  But 
it  must  be  remembered  that  Byron  was  not  wholly  to 
blame.  Both  fate  and  circumstances  worked  against 
him.  We  have  seen  what  must  have  been  the  inherit- 
ance of  disposition  that  he  received  from  his  ancestors 
on  his  father's  side.  We  have  seen,  too,  how  little  his 
mother's  judgment  and  conduct  were  fitted  to  influence 
him  for  good.  Almost  the  only  principles  of  morality 
he  ever  learned,  except  what  he  picked  up  in  the  rough 
and  tumble  of  an  old-time  English  public  school,  and 


LORD  BYRON. 


225 


except  what  he  learned  from  books,  he  owed  to  the  pre- 
cepts of  a  faithful  Scotch  nurse,  who  also  taught  him  his 
Bible  (in  the  knowledge  of  which,  indeed,  owing  to  her 
instructions,  he  was  very  proficient).  He  had  a  passion 
for  loving ;  but  the  only  woman  he  ever  really  loved  — 
that  is,  with  an  enduring  love,  at  once  ardent  and  pure 
—  was  his  half-sister  Augusta,  and  her  h"e  was  destined 
rarely  ever  to  see  until  he  had  returned  from  his  travels 
abroad,  with  a  man's  full  years  and  with  more  than  a 
man's  full  experience.  His  earlier  loves  seem  always  to 
have  been  crossed.  When  yet  a  young  boy  he  was  in 
love  with  his  cousin,  Mary  Duff,  who  afterward  married 
another.  When  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  he  was  in 
love  with  another  cousin,  Margaret  Parker,  who  after- 
ward died.  When  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age  he  loved 
and  would  have  married  Mary  Chaworth,  a  distant  rela- 
tive and  the  heiress  of  estates  that  adjoined  his  own ; 
but  she  treated  him  coldly  and  disdained  his  advances, 
though  ever  afterward,  even  to  the  last  year  of  his  life, 
he  treasured  his  idealization  of  her  memory  and  made 
her  the  subject  of  some  of  his  finest  verse.  All  these 
passions  were  conventional  enough ;  but  there  were 
others  that  were  not  so  conventional.  Some  of  his  ten- 
derest  poems,  some  of  the  sweetest  and  most  pathetic 
expressions  of  regret  and  sorrow  he  ever  wrote,  were 
addressed  to  the  memory  of  "Thyrza";  but  who 
"Thyrza"  was  is  not  known,  nor  would  Byron  ever 
declare.  An  explanation  given  by  some  of  his  biog- 
raphers is  that  "  Thyrza "  was  a  young  girl,  of  lower 
social  degree  than  himself,  who  made  sacrifices  of  every- 
thing for  his  sake,  even  so  far  as  to  accompany  him 
through  England  on  horseback  as  his  brother.  But 


226  LITER  A  TURE. 

other  biographers  do  not   identify  "Thyrza"  with  this 
poor  girl. 

When  Byron  came  back  to  England  from  his  Euro- 
pean tour  his  experience  of  the  world  on  all  matters  of 
the  heart  was,  at  all  events,  sufficient  to  entitle  him  to 
settle  down  in  quietness  and  decorum.  This,  however, 
he  was  not  permitted  to  do.  The  social  popularity  which 
the  successful  publication  of  "  Childe  Harold  "  suddenly 
thrust  upon  him  would  have  turned  heads  much  more 
stably  fixed  than  his.  Girls  and  women  of  every  rank 
in  life  literally  threw  themselves  at  him.  He  was  hand- 
some —  scarcely  any  one  more  so,  both  in  face  and 
figure  —  though  slightly  deformed  in  one  foot,  a  defect 
from  physical  perfection  which  greatly  chafed  him.  His 
friends  who  used  to  bathe  with  him  used  to  say  that  his 
torso  and  limbs  were  as  superbly  turned  as  any  Apollo's. 
He  was  of  noble  descent  and  title.  His  estate,  though 
encumbered,  was  one  of  the  finest  and  stateliest  in  the 
kingdom.  He  was  a  poet,  and  a  great  and  popular  one. 
He  had  travelled  and  seen  the  world,  and  was  a  charming 
and  vivacious  companion.  Moreover,  as  the  "tang  "in 
the  wine  gives  to  it  its  appetizing  flavor,  so  he  had  just 
enough  of  a  reputation  for  recklessness  and  wickedness 
to  give  to  his  career,  his  person,  his  manners,  and  his 
character,  an  interest  so  keen  and  enjoyable  that  even 
the  properest  sort  of  people  felt  no  scruple  in  avowing 
it.  In  short,  he  was  the  lion  of  the  town.  His  society 
and  his  friendship  were  sought  for  by  every  one.  Not 
a  family  in  the  kingdom,  however  old  or  noble,  but 
would  have  deemed  an  alliance  with  him  an  honor.  And 
all  the  time  he  was  the  object  of  secret  advances  from 
dames  and  damsels  of  the  highest  social  position  and  the 


LORD  BYRON.  2 29 

highest  social  character.  Let  all  this  be  remembered 
when  Byron's  own  undoubted  faults  are  up  for  judg- 
ment. He  did  not  marry,  however,  and  after  a  while, 
his  social  relationships  becoming  in  some  quarters  rather 
particular  and  intimate,  he  ceased  to  be  the  object  of 
general  adoration  which  he  at  first  had  been.  But  in 
the  autumn  of  1814  he  proposed  to  a  Miss  Milbanke. 
She  refused  at  first,  but  suggested  a  correspondence. 
The  correspondence  thus  begun  went  on  with  much 
interest  and  affection,  and  after  a  little  while  Byron 
proposed  a  second  time,  but,  it  must  be  confessed, 
neither  with  earnestness  nor  enthusiasm.  The  second 
proposal  was  accepted,  however.  They  were  married 
in  January,  1815.  A  child  (his  daughter  Ada)  was  born 
to  them  in  December.  On  January  15,  1816,  Lady 
Byron  left  her  husband's  house  to  visit  her  parents, 
writing  to  her  husband  on  the  journey  a  loving  and 
tenderly  playful  letter.  In  a  very  short  time,  however 
(a  few  days),  she  sent  him  word  that  she  would  never 
return.  Nor  did  she  ever  return.  Her  parents  de- 
manded a  legal  separation  ;  and  this,  after  he  had  vainly 
endeavored  to  secure  a  reconciliation  (scarcely  believing 
the  action  to  be  in  earnest  at  first),  Byron  consented  to. 
The  world  of  London  turned  at  once,  as  if  in  rage,  against 
its  former  favorite,  and  he  who  a  year  or  two  before  had 
been  the  idol  of  society,  became  now  the  object  of  its 
bitterest  contumely  and  reproach. 

This  estrangement  of  Lord  Byron  and  his  wife,  this 
separation  so  suddenly  brought  about,  so  persistently 
persevered  in  by  Lady  Byron's  friends  (for  it  is  admitted 
that  Byron  himself  courted  reconciliation  several  times), 
is  the  domestic  incident  that  has  excited  the  most 


230  LITER  A  TURE. 

interest  in  the  whole  range  of  literary  history.  And  it 
has  never  been  satisfactorily  explained.  Byron  used  to 
say  that  there  was  nothing  of  importance  to  explain. 
Lady  Byron's  friends  never  offered  the  public  any  real 
explanation,  but  gave  out  many  grave  and  serious  hints. 
General  incompatibility  is  the  most  frequently  alleged 


LADY  BYRON. 

cause  ;  but  that,  in  face  of  Lady  Byron's  tender  message 
on  first  leaving  him  and  then  her  sudden  taking  on  of  a 
wholly  different  attitude,  cannot  be  regarded  as  sufficient. 
Lady  Byron  was  a  woman  of  upright  character  and 
strict  views  as  to  behavior,  and  she  might  have  regarded 
her  alliance  with  a  man  like  Byron  as  an  offence  against 
her  principles  ;  but  even  if  this  were  granted,  her  deport- 
ment to  her  husband  on  leaving  him  is  unexplainable  ; 


LORD  BYRON.  231 

and  her  subsequent  deportment  to  him  when  he  courted 
reconciliation  is  thought  by  many  to  have  been  too  im- 
placable. But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  is  believed  to 
have  been  a  just  woman,  one  who  would  not  have 
acted  as  she  did  without,  at  least,  thinking  she  had  suffi- 
cient cause  for  her  action.  The  affair,  however,  would 
no  doubt  have  long  since  been  relegated  to  the  realm 
of  oblivion  had  not  in  our  own  time  and  in  our  own 
country  one  of  our  own  countrywomen  taken  part  in  it. 
About  thirty  years  ago  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  pub- 
lished in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  a  statement  said  to  have 
been  obtained  directly  from  Lady  Byron  herself,  which 
accused  Byron  of  having  a  scandalous  relationship  with 
one  whom  he  was  believed  always  to  have  tenderly  and 
honorably  loved.  The  allegations  in  this  statement  may 
have  been  made  by  Lady  Byron,  and  when  she  made 
them  they  may  have  been  believed  by  her  to  be  true ; 
but  no  one  in  England  believes  that  at  the  time  of  the 
estrangement  she  believed  them,  or  that  she  even  made 
them  then.  The  explanation  is,  that  afterward,  when  in 
failing  health  and  failing  mind,  she  may  have  made  them, 
and  may  then  have  believed  them  to  be  true. 

But  to  Byron  the  estrangement,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  reasonableness  or  unreasonableness  of  it,  was 
of  most  evil  consequence.  He  left  England  soon  after 
(April,  1 8 1 6),  and  never  returned  to  it  again.  He  resided 
for  some  time  in  Switzerland,  and  there  unfortunately  made 
acquaintances  that  proved  to  be  more  than  passing  inti- 
macies. His  daughter,  Allegra,  whom  he  most  tenderly 
loved,  and  whom  he  most  tenderly  cared  for  as  long  as 
she  lived,  was  born  in  1817.  In  the  meantime  he  had 
come  to  Italy  and  taken  up  his  residence  at  Venice ;  and 


232  LIT  ERA  TV  RE. 

there  Lord  Byron's  course  took  its  lowest  dip.  His  life 
at  Venice  will  hardly  be  excused  even  by  his  warm- 
est defenders  ;  and  for  two  years  or  more  nothing  but 
his  devotion  to  poetry  was  its  redeeming  feature.  In 
1819,  however,  he  fell  under  the  influence  of  a  passion 
which,  though  irregular,  judged  by  Anglo-Saxon  canons 
of  morality,  was  not  considered  so  irregular  in  the  coun- 
try where  it  had  its  being.  The  Countess  of  Guiccioli,  a 
young  and  beautiful  girl,  who,  for  the  sake  of  the  connec- 
tion it  established  for  her  family,  had  been  married  to  an 
old  man  of  sixty,  of  ancient  title  and  large  estates,  met 
Byron  and  fell  deeply  and  hopelessly  in  love  with  him. 
Though  somewhat  sated  with  loving  by  this  time,  Byron 
reciprocated  the  young  countess's  attachment,  and  after 
a  number  of  necessary  preliminaries  (Count  Guiccioli 
consenting,  and  the  parents  and  family  of  the  countess, 
also),  Byron  and  the  countess  were  domesticated  together. 
The  universal  testimony  of  all  who  visited  Byron  during 
the  few  short  years  that  remained  to  him  after  this 
arrangement  began  is  that  the  countess  made  for  him  a 
congenial  and  lovable  companion. 

It  was  in  the  inauspicious  and  evil  circumstances  of  his 
early  life  in  Italy  that  Byron  wrote  some  of  his  strongest 
work  —  the  last  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  "  Manfred," 
"  The  Lament  of  Tasso,"  "  Mazeppa,"  "  Beppo,"  and  the 
first  two  cantos  of  "  Don  Juan."  The  third  canto  of 
"Childe  Harold"  and  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  "  had 
been  written  in  Switzerland.  The  remainder  of  his  liter- 
ary work,  the  very  strongest  of  all  he  wrote,  was  produced 
in  the  home  that  was  made  for  him  by  the  loving  care  of 
the  Countess  Guiccioli.  But  even  successful  literary 
work,  much  as  his  heart  and  pride  were  in  it,  and  even 


LORD  BYRON. 
From  a  sketch  by  Count  D'Orsay,  May,  1823. 


LORD  BYRON. 


235 


the  serenity  and  comfort  of  happy  domesticity,  which 
now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  enjoying,  were 
not  enough  to  keep  the  heart  and  soul  of  such  a  man  as 
Byron  securely  anchored.  For  with  all  his  faults,  and 
no  man  ever  made  a  worse  use  of  such  as  he  had,  Byron 
had  a  true  and  tender  heart,  and  an  ambitious  and  noble- 
purposed  soul.  His  estrangement  from  his  wife,  his 
separation  from  his  daughter,  greatly  fretted  and  pained 
him.  That  in  respect  of  his  conduct  toward  his  wife  the 
world  would  finally  exonerate  him  of  serious  wrong- 
doing when  it  should  know  all  the  facts,  though  it  might 
blame  him  for  his  follies,  he  firmly  believed  ;  and  that  it 
might  know  all  the  facts  he  drew  up  his  "  Memoirs  "  and 
intrusted  them  to  his  friend,  the  poet  Moore,  for  publi- 
cation after  his  death ;  but,  unfortunately  for  Byron's 
reputation,  Moore  rather  thoughtlessly  allowed  these 
memoirs  to  be  destroyed.  But  though  Byron  had  thus 
done  what  he  could  to  set  his  mind  at  rest  regarding  a 
matter  that  touched  his  pride  as  well  as  his  heart  to  the 
quick,  and  though  he  seemed  to  gain  greater  literary  power 
with  every  verse  he  wrote,  and  though  his  home  life  was 
a  happier  one  than  ever  before  he  had  known,  yet  his 
unsatisfactory  relationship  with  the  great  world  of  soci- 
ety and  action  which  he  was  so  well  fitted  to  take  a 
shining  and  commanding  part  in,  made  him  dissatisfied 
with  the  whole  tenor  of  his  existence  —  domestic  hap- 
piness and  comfort,  literary  success  and  honor,  and 
everything  else. 

But  a  wider  field  of  action  immediately  opened  before 
him.  The  patriots  of  Greece  ardently  sought  his  sym- 
pathy and  his  aid.  He  joined  the  cause  for  the  restora- 
tion of  Hellenic  liberty  ;  and  he  determined  to  devote 


236  LITERATURE. 

his  life,  his  means,  and  his  talents  to  the  cause  he  had 
adopted.  On  July  14,  1823,  he  bade  farewell  to  his 
devoted  "Theresa"  (the  Countess  of  Guiccioli),  and 
accompanied  by  her  brother,  Count  Gamba,  who  was  his 
faithful  companion  to  the  last,  he  set  sail  from  Genoa  in 
a  ship  that  he  had  had  fitted  out  for  him,  to  take  a  per- 
sonal and  practical  part  in  the  fight  which  the  Greeks 
were  making  against  their  enslavers.  Arrived  in  Greece, 
he  was  hailed  as  a  heaven-sent  deliverer.  He  was  made 
a  commander-in-chief,  and  asked  to  share  in  the  governor- 
ship of  the  Morea.  But  Greece  was  full  of  factions,  and 
a  wise  course  of  action  was  exceedingly  difficult.  How- 
ever, Byron  was  sagacious  and  prudent,  both  in  acting 
and  in  not  acting,  and  he  soon  convinced  the  Greeks  of 
all  factions  that  he  was  one  whose  judgment  could  be 
relied  upon.  He  was  appointed  commissioner  to  dispense 
the  loan  of  a  million  crowns  which  the  friends  of  Greece 
in  England  had  been  able  to  raise  for  the  patriotic  revo- 
lutionists ;  and  had  he  lived  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
would  have  been  asked  to  occupy  a  regal  throne.  But 
it  was  not  to  be.  Byron's  work  was  over.  The  place 
where  he  was  stationed,  Missolonghi,  proved  to  be  a 
veritable  fever-bed.  Byron's  constitution  was  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  miasmatic  influences,  and  he  was  implored 
to  leave  and  go  elsewhere.  But  he  would  not.  He 
thought  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  show  cowardice.  He 
took  the  fever ;  he  was  treated  most  unwisely  by  his 
physicians;  and  he  died,  April  19,  1824.  Thirty-seven 
guns  were  fired  in  his  honor,  one  for  every  year  of  his 
life,  and  for  twenty-one  days  Greece  went  in  mourning. 
She  also  begged  for  the  body  of  her  "  liberator  "to  be 
buried  in  the  Temple  of  Theseus  at  Athens.  But  the 


LORD  BYRON. 


remains  were  taken  to  England.  It  was  thought  that 
the  great  poet  would  have  been  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  But  an  objection  was  raised,  and  by  his  sister's 
wish  he  was  taken  to  the  burial  place  of  his  ancestors  at 
Hucknall,  near  Newstead,  where  now  she,  also,  and  his 
little  daughter,  Ada,  the  two  beings  whom  he  loved  most 
tenderly  of  all,  lie  with  him. 

Byron's  work,  marred  though  it  often  is  by  much  that 
the  moralist  and  the  man  of  good  taste  must  alike  con- 
demn, belongs,  nevertheless,  to  the  world's  greatest  liter- 
ature. It  was  great  because  he  himself  was  great  — 
great  in  force,  in  scope  of  observation,  in  range  of  sym- 
pathy, in  imaginative  idealization,  in  descriptive  faculty, 
and  in  the  power  of  putting  into  clear  and  memorable 
language  reflections  that  when  once  read  seem  to  come 
to  the  minds  of  all  readers  like  thoughts  inborn  within 
themselves.  But  he  had  an  even  greater  ability  than 
any  of  these  —  the  ability  to  see  the  absurdity,  the  weak- 
ness, the  want  of  consistency  or  reasonableness,  in  the 
mental  and  moral  attitude  of  men  and  women,  and  of 
societies,  communities,  and  nations,  as  to  all  matters  of 
social  conduct  ;  and  the  ability  also  to  describe  this 
weakness  and  to  make  it  a  matter  for  the  laughter  of 
gods  and  men.  In  other  words,  he  was  the  greatest 
social  satirist  that  the  modern  world  has  known.  Such 
works  as  "The  Vision  of  Judgment  "  and  "Don  Juan  " 
(for  "  Don  Juan  "  is  really  a  satire)  are  unequalled  in 
literature.  They  may  offend  our  sense  of  propriety, 
and  undoubtedly  they  do.  They  may  be  unfit  for  read- 
ing to  any  but  men  and  women  of  fixed  principles  and 
settled  habits  of  conduct,  and  undoubtedly  they  are. 
But,  nevertheless,  in  force  and  swiftness  of  execution,  in 


238  LITERATURE. 

deftness  of  touch,  in  color,  in  action,  in  vivid  imaginative 
groupings  and  dispositions,  in  interest,  in  the  expression 
of  varied  feelings  from  humor  to  pathos,  from  the  ridicu- 
lous to  the  sublime,  they  excel  all  other  poetic  composi- 
tions that  ever  have  been  written.  Many  critics  have 
described  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment "  as  the  greatest 
social  satire  of  modern  times.  So  noble-minded  a  judge 
as  Sir  Walter  Scott  pronounced  "  Don  Juan  "  as  having 
"  the  variety  even  of  Shakespeare."  Goethe  said  of  it : 
"  It  is  full  of  soul  and  is  exquisitely  delicate  in  its  ten- 
derness." Shelley  spoke  of  it  as  "  wholly  new,  and  yet 
surpassingly  beautiful."  And  in  such  opinions  as  these 
the  world  of  lesser  critics  also  pretty  generally  concur. 

Byron's  greatness  as  a  poet  lay  in  the  simplicity,  the 
naturalness,  the  force,  the  directness,  the  felicity  or 
appositeness,  and  oftentimes  the  beauty,  of  his  descrip- 
tions and  reflections.  His  was  not  a  creative  intellect. 
He  gave  to  the  world  no  new  thought,  no  new  philoso- 
phy, no  new  and  profound  explanation  of  life  and  its 
mysteries,  no  new  inspirations  of  hope  and  trust  and 
faith  —  in  short,  nothing  to  make  the  world  better,  or 
brighter,  or  happier,  except  an  enjoyment  for  the  pass- 
ing hour,  a  pleasing  but  temporary  incitement  of  the 
feeling  and  fancy.  His  influence,  therefore,  is  wholly 
titillative  and  sensuous,  although  so  in  an  exceptionally 
superior  degree.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  not  inspirational 
or  inseminating.  It  produces  no  permanent  emotion ;  it 
develops  no  lasting  impulses  toward  either  thought  or 
action.  Its  effect  is  wholly  superficial  and  evanescent. 

Many  of  Byron's  reflections  and  descriptions  were 
uttered  by  the  characters  he  created,  and  might,  there- 
fore, be  expected  to  have  partaken  of  his  characters'  idio- 


LORD  BYRON. 


239 


syncrasies ;  in  other  words,  to  have  been  as  dramatic  in 
reality  as  they  were  in  form.  But  Byron's  want  of  crea- 
tive power  was  manifested  here  also.  He  did  not 
possess  the  gift  of  dramatic  characterization.  His  hero- 
ines, outwardly  so  many  varying  types  of  physical  loveli- 
ness, were  inwardly  only  so  many  varying  types  of  the 
capacity  for  loving  and  being  loved.  Of  other  gifts  and 
graces  we  discover  but  little  in  their  creator's  presenta- 
tion of  them.  His  heroes,  too,  were  merely  modifica- 
tions of  one  master  type,  and  that,  no  doubt,  his  own. 
The  hero  of  "  Childe  Harold  "  was  intended  at  first  to 
be  a  dramatic  character  ;  but  long  before  the  poem  was 
finished  the  author  ceased  even  to  pretend  to  make  the 
character  anything  other  than  his  own.  The  other  great 
characters  of  Byron  —  Manfred,  Cain,  Lara,  Conrad,  the 
Giaour,  etc.  —  are  but  idealizations  —  oftentimes  extreme 
idealizations  —  of  phases  of  character  which  Byron  found 
in  himself.  Even  Don  Juan  is  but  the  completer  realiza- 
tion of  what  Byron  was,  or  fancied  that  he  could  have 
been,  in  his  youth.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Byron  made  no  pretence  in  his  poetical  work  (except  in 
his  lyrics)  to  be  anything  else  than  a  narrator.  Where 
he  gives  his  poems  a  dramatic  form,  or  has  his  charac- 
ters speak  in  their  own  persons,  it  is  merely  to  make  his 
narrative  run  the  more  easily.  A  great  point  of  praise 
for  Byron  is  that  he  rarely  misestimated  the  scope  of  his 
own  genius,  and  so  made  few  failures.  His  work,  such 
as  he  did,  is  what  he  could  do  easiest  and  best ;  and  he 
did  not  even  attempt  any  sort  of  work  that  he  could  not 
do  well. 

As  a  rule,  Byron   had   only  two  sets  of    intellectual 
operations  to  put  into  words ;  first,  the  description  of  a 


240 


LITER  A  TURE. 


fact,  the  narration  of  an  incident,  the  telling  of  a  story ; 
and,  second,  the  expression  of  some  reflection.  He  saw 
his  facts  clearly,  and  he  endeavored  to  express  them 
clearly.  His  story-telling,  therefore,  was  always  simple 
and  direct.  His  reflections,  too,  as  mental  processes, 
were  equally  clear-cut.  They  were  never  profound  or 
esoteric ;  in  fact,  they  were  generally  obvious,  and  often- 
times scarcely  more  than  superficial.  These,  also,  he 


ARMS  OF  THE  BYRON  FAMILY. 

endeavored  to  express  with  the  utmost  clearness.  His 
style,  therefore,  partook  of  the  simplicity  and  directness 
of  his  mental  operations.  As  he  became  more  and  more 
experienced  in  authorship  it  became  the  very  perfection 
of  simplicity  and  "  rush."  He  never  loitered  or  dawdled. 
He  went  continuously  on  —  leaping  over  or  passing 
round  an  obstacle  —  never  stopping  to  remove  it.  In 
time  his  song  flight  became  the  very  swiftest  of  all  our 
poetic  choir.  He  was  not,  however,  in  the  least  pains- 
taking in  what  he  wrote.  He  was  scarcely  even  passably 


LORD  BYROJV.  24! 

so.  His  mistakes  in  syntax,  and  in  construction,  were 
frequent  enough  to  bring  upon  him  the  contemptuous 
criticism  of  many  grammarians.  His  want  of  ear,  or, 
rather,  his  carelessness  in  all  matters  of  the  ear  —  in 
melody,  rhythm,  rhyme,  etc.  —  has  made  Swinburne  say 
that  no  other  poet  of  any  considerable  renown  ever 
wrote  so  badly  as  he.  At  times,  too,  he  gets  so  hope- 
lessly entangled  in  his  metaphors,  similes,  and  other 
poetic  images,  as  to  be  scarcely  intelligible.  But  all 
these  defects  are  merely  as  grains  of  dust  in  the  pure 
wheat.  The  great  body  of  Byron's  verse  proceeds  as 
directly  straight  ahead,  and  is  as  easily  understood,  as 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  or  the  "  Proverbs  of  Solomon." 

The  reason  why  Byron's  method  of  expression  was  so 
simple  and  direct  is  that  his  natural  gift  of  expression 
was  so  great  that  everything  he  wrote  he  wrote  without 
effort  —  with  "  running  pen,"  as  the  Romans  used  to 
say.  As  for  style,  he  paid  no  thought  to  it  whatever. 
He  never  elaborated  his  composition.  "  I  am  like  the 
tiger  in  the  jungle,"  he  used  to  say  ;  "  if  I  miss  my  first 
spring  I  go  off  grumbling  to  my  lair  again." 

Nor  of  versification  did  he  make  any  study.  Of  the 
various  forms  of  verse  which  he  used  those  which  he 
most  followed  were  adopted  out  of  mere  fancy  or  caprice  ; 
one,  because  it  had  been  used  by  his.  favorite  Pope ;  an- 
other, because  Scott  had  had  success  with  it ;  and  so  on. 
Even  the  "  ottava  rima,"  the  eight-lined  verse  of  "  Beppo  " 
and  "  Don  Juan,"  which  he  has  made  so  peculiarly  his 
own,  —  of  which,  indeed,  he  is  the  greatest  master  of  all 
who  ever  handled  it,  —  was  adopted  almost  by  accident. 
In  short,  Byron  was  not  an  artist,  either  in  composition 
or  versification,  and  he  never  attempted  to  be  one.  The 


242  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

assiduous  pains  of  poets  like  Tennyson,  or  Longfellow, 
or  Gray,  or  his  favorite  Pope,  or  even  Scott,  he  never 
practised,  or  even  dreamed  of.  His  untutored  genius 
was,  in  his  judgment,  all-sufficing,  and  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  have  it  thought  so.  Indeed,  he  was  quite  willing 
to  have  it  thought  that  poetry  was  to  him  a  natural  gift 
—  one  that  had  come  to  him  without  any  effort  or  desire 
on  his  part,  much  as  his  title  of  nobility  had  come  to 
him.  He  never  cared  to  consider  himself  simply  as  a 
poet.  At  first,  and  for  a  long  time,  he  even  would  not 
receive  any  pay  for  his  poetry,  permitting  his  friends  to 
reap  the  financial  benefits  that  arose  from  his  exercise  of 
his  genius  ;  although  when  he  had  thus  allowed  several 
thousand  pounds  to  slip  out  of  his  hands,  because  of  his 
foolish  pride,  he  became  more  sensible,  and  took  pay  like 
any  one  else.  Afterward,  indeed,  he  got  so  that  he 
could  drive  as  hard  bargains  with  his  publishers  as  any 
other  author.  But  never,  even  when  most  popular  as  a 
writer,  or  even  when  most  powerful,  did  he  abate  one  jot 
from  that  jauntiness  of  demeanor  which  made  him  appear 
as  if  he  cared  not  one  whit  for  his  poetic  fame ;  and  in 
good  truth  he  did  care  but  little  for  it. 


CRITICAL  STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES. 


LADY    BLESSINGTON  S   PORTRAIT    OF    BYRON. 

"  I  HAD  fancied  him  taller,  with  a  more  dignified  and 
commanding  air,  and  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  hero- 
looking  sort  of  person  with  whom  I  had  so  long  identi- 
fied him  in  imagination.  His  appearance  is,  however, 
highly  prepossessing ;  his  head  is  finely  shaped,  and  the 
forehead  open,  high,  and  noble ;  his  eyes  are  grey  and 
full  of  expression,  but  one  is  visibly  larger  than  the 
other ;  his  mouth  is  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  his 
face,  the  upper  lip  of  Grecian  shortness,  and  the  corners 
descending,  the  lips  full  and  finely  cut.  In  speaking 
he  shows  his  teeth  very  much,  and  they  are  white  and 
even ;  but  I  observed  that  even  in  his  smile  —  and  he 
smiles  frequently  —  there  is  something  of  a  scornful 
expression  in  his  mouth  that  is  evidently  natural  and 
not,  as  many  suppose,  affected.  .  .  .  His  countenance 
is  full  of  expression,  and  changes  with  the  subject  of 
conversation  ;  it  gains  on  the  beholder  the  more  it  is 
seen,  and  leaves  an  agreeable  impression.  ...  He  is 
very  slightly  lame,  and  the  deformity  of  his  foot  is  so 
little  remarkable  that  I  am  not  now  aware  which  foot 
it  is.  His  voice  and  accent  are  peculiarly  agreeable  but 
effeminate  —  clear,  harmonious,  and  so  distinct  that, 
though  his  general  tone  in  speaking  is  rather  low  than 
high,  not  a  word  is  lost.  ...  I  had  expected  to  find 

243 


2  44  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

him  a  dignified,  cold,  reserved,  and  haughty  person, 
resembling  those  mysterious  personages  he  so  loves  to 
paint  in  his  works,  and  with  whom  he  has  been  so  often 
identified  by  the  good-natured  world.  But  nothing  can 
be  more  different ;  for  were  I  to  point  out  the  promi- 
nent defect  in  Lord  Byron,  I  should  say  it  was  flip- 
pa.ncy,  and  a  total  want  of  that  natural  self-possession 
and  dignity  which  ought  to  characterize  a  man  of  birth 
and  education."  Upon  which  Mr.  William  Minto  re- 
marks :  "  Such,  judged  by  the  social  standards  of  his 
own  country,  was  the  look  and  personal  manner  of  the 
greatest  literary  power  of  this  century." 

BYRON'S   SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS   AS  TO  HIS   LAMENESS. 

It  is  certain  that  one  of  the  poet's  feet  was,  either  at 
birth  or  at  a  very  early  period,  so  seriously  clubbed  or 
twisted  as  to  affect  his  gait,  and  to  a  considerable 
extent  his  habits.  It  also  appears  that  the  surgical 
means  —  boots,  bandages,  etc.  —  adopted  to  straighten 
the  limb  only  aggravated  the  evil.  His  sensitiveness 
on  the  subject  was  early  awakened  by  careless  or  un- 
feeling references.  "  What  a  pretty  boy  Byron  is  !  " 
said  a  friend  to  his  nurse.  "  What  a  pity  he  has  such  a 
leg !  "  On  which  the  child,  with  flashing  eyes,  cutting 
at  her  with  a  baby's  whip,  cried  out,  "  Dinna  speak  of 
it."  His  mother  herself,  in  her  violent  fits,  when  the 
boy  ran  round  the  room  laughing  at  her  attempts  to 
catch  him,  used  to  say  he  was  a  little  dog,  as  bad  as  his 
father,  and  to  call  him  "a  lame  brat"  -an  incident 
which  notoriously  suggested  the  opening  scene  of  the 
"Deformed  Transformed."  In  the  height  of  his  popu- 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON.       245 

larity  he  fancied  that  the  beggars  and  street-sweepers 
in  London  were  mocking  him.  He  satirized  and  dis- 
couraged dancing  ;  he  preferred  riding  and  swimming  to 
other  exercises,  because  they  concealed  his  weakness  ; 
and  on  his  deathbed  asked  to  be  blistered  in  such  a 
way  that  he  might  not  be  called  on  to  expose  it.  The 
Countess  Guiccioli,  Lady  Blessington,  and  others  assure 
us  that  in  society  few  would  have  observed  the  defect 
if  he  had  not  referred  to  it ;  but  it  was  never  far  from 
the  mind,  and  therefore  never  far  from  the  mouth,  of 
the  least  reticent  of  men.  —  JOHN  NICHOL. 

BYRON    AND    LADY    BYRON. 

There  is  a  kind  of  genius,  closely  associated  with 
intense  irritability,  which  it  is  difficult  to  subject  to  the 
most  reasonable  yoke;  and  of  this  sort  was  Byron's. 
His  valet,  Fletcher,  is  reported  to  have  said  that  "  Any 
woman  could  manage  my  lord,  except  my  lady  "  ;  and 
Madame  De  Stael,  on  reading  the  "Farewell,"  that 
"  She  would  have  been  glad  to  have  been  in  Lady 
Byron's  place."  But  it  may  be  doubted  if  Byron  would 
have  made  a  good  husband  to  any  woman  ;  his  wife  and 
he  were  even  more  than  unusually  ill-assorted.  A 
model  of  the  proprieties,  and  a  pattern  of  the  learned 
philanthropy  of  which,  in  her  sex,  he  was  wont  to  make 
a  constant  butt,  she  was  no  fit  consort  for  that  "  mens 
insana  in  corpore  insano"  What  could  her  placid  tem- 
perament conjecture  of  a  man  whom  she  saw,  in  one  of 
his  fits  of  passion,  throwing  a  favorite  watch  under  the 
fire,  and  grinding  it  to  pieces  with  a  poker?  Or  how 
could  her  conscious  virtue  tolerate  the  recurring  irregu- 


246  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

larities  which  he  was  accustomed,  not  only  to  permit 
himself,  but  to  parade  ?  The  harassment  of  his  affairs 
stimulated  his  violence,  till  she  was  inclined  to  suspect 
him  to  be  mad.  —  JOHN  NICHOL. 


INCOMPATIBILITY  OF  BYRON  AND  LADY  BYRON. 

Some  of  Lady  Byron's  recently  printed  letters  —  as 
that  to  Lady  Anne  Barnard,  and  the  reports  of  later 
observers  of  her  character,  as  William  Howitt  —  tend 
to  detract  from  the  earlier  tributes  to  her  consistent 
amiability,  and  confirm  our  ideas  of  the  incompatibility 
of  the  pair.  It  must  have  been  trying  to  a  poet  to  be 
asked  by  his  wife,  impatient  of  his  late  hours,  when  he 
was  going  to  leave  off  writing  verses  ;  to  be  told  he  had 
no  real  enthusiasm  ;  or  to  have  his  desk  broken  open, 
and  its  compromising  contents  sent  to  the  persons  for 
whom  they  were  least  intended.  The  smouldering  ele- 
ments of  discontent  may  have  been  fanned  by  the  gos- 
sip of  dependants,  or  the  officious  zeal  of  relatives,  and 
kindled  into  a  jealous  flame  by  the  ostentation  of  regard 
for  others  beyond  the  circle  of  his  home.  Lady  Byron 
doubtless  believed  some  story  which,  when  communi- 
cated to  her  legal  advisers,  led  them  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  mere  fact  of  her  believing  it  made  reconcili- 
ation impossible ;  and  the  inveterate  obstinacy  which 
lurked  beneath  her  gracious  exterior  made  her  cling 
through  life  to  the  substance  —  not  always  to  the  form, 
whatever  that  may  have  been  —  of  her  first  impressions. 
Her  later  letters  to  Mrs.  Leigh,  as  that  called  forth  by 
Moore's  "  Life,"  are  certainly  as  open  to  the  charge  of 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON.      247 


248  LITER  A  TURE 

self-righteousness  as  those  of  her  husband's  are  to  self- 
disparagement.  —  JOHN  N-ICHOL. 


"  THYRZA. 

But  the  death  which  most  deeply  wounded  Byron  came 
later.1  Nothing  ever  racked  him  with  sharper  anguish 
than  the  death  of  her  whom  he  mourned  under  the 
name  of  Thyrza.  To  know  the  bitterness  of  his 
struggle  with  this  sorrow,  we  have  only  to  look  at  what 
he  wrote  on  the  day  that  the  news  reached  him  (Oct. 
11,  1 8 1 1 ) ;  some  of  his  wildest  and  most  ptirely  mis- 
anthropical verse,  as  well  as  some  of  his  sweetest  and 
saddest,  belongs  to  that  blackest  of  dates  in  his  calen- 
dar. It  is  time  that  something  were  done  to  trace  this 
attachment,  which  has  been  strangely  overlooked  by  the 
essayists  and  biographers,  because  it  furnishes  an  im- 
portant clue  to  Byron's  character,  and  is,  indeed,  of 
hardly  less  importance  than  his  later  attachment  to  the 
Countess  Guiccioli.  Mr.  John  Morley,  in  an  essay 
which  ought  to  be  read  by  everybody  who  wishes  to 
form  a  clear  idea  of  Byron's  poetry  as  a  revolutionary 
force  in  itself  and  an  index  to  the  movement  of  the 
time,  remarks  upon  the  respect  which  Byron,  with  all 
his  raillery  of  the  married  state  in  modern  society,  still 
shows  for  the  domestic  idea.  It  is  against  the  artificial 
union,  the  marriage  of  convenience,  that  Byron's  raillery 
is  directed ;  he  always  upholds  singleness  of  attachment 
as  an  ideal,  however  cynically  or  mournfully  he  laments 
its  infrequence,  and  points  with  laughter  or  with  tears 

1Mr.  Minto  had  been  previously  speaking  of  the  deaths  of  Byron's  friends,  Matthews 
and  Wingfield;  also  of  the  death  of  the  poet's  mother. 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON.       249 

at  the  way  in  which  it  is  crossed  and  cut  short  by  cir- 
cumstances when  it  does  exist.  Byron  is  not  a  railer 
against  matrimony,  except  as  a  counterfeit  of  the  natu- 
ral union  of  hearts.  His  attachment  to  Thyrza  shows 
that  in  this,  as  in  other  matters,  he  was  transparently 
sincere.  —  WILLIAM  MINTO. 


BYRON  S    REAL    CONSTANCY    OF    AFFECTION. 

To  look  for  the  causes  of  moodiness  and  melancholy 
in  material  circumstances  is  a  very  foolish  quest  ;  but 
we  may  be  certain  that  insufficiency  of  this  world's 
money,  and  the  daily  vexations  and  insults  to  which  his 
rank  was  thereby  exposed,  had  much  more  to  do  with 
Byron's  youthful  gloom  than  satiety  of  this  world's 
pleasures.  His  embarrassed  finances,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  securing  the  respect  due  to  his  title,  formed  a 
constant  source  of  annoyance,  put  his  whole  system  into  a 
morbid  condition  in  which  every  little  slight  and  repulse 
festered  and  rankled  with  exaggerated  virulence.  From 
the  daily  humiliations  and  impertinences  to  which  his 
false  position  exposed  him,  aggravated  by  his  jealous 
and  suspicious  irritability,  he  may  have  turned  some- 
times to  Childe  Harold's  consolations  — "  the  harlot 
and  the  bowl,"  but  his  nature  prompted  him  rather  to 
forget  his  vexations  in  purer  and  worthier  objects.  Un- 
fortunately for  him,  such  impetuous  and  passionate 
affections  as  his  could  rarely  find  the  response  for 
which  he  craved.  In  those  few  cases  where  devotion 
was  repaid  with  devotion,  the  warmth  of  his  gratitude 
was  unbounded  ;  he  loaded  poor  Thyrza's  memory  with 
caresses,  careless  of  what  the  world  might  say,  remem- 


250  LITER  A  TURE. 

bering  only  that  the  poor  girl  clung  to  him  with  unself- 
ish love ;  and  he  returned  his  sister's  tender  regard 
with  an  ardor  and  constancy  that  showed  how  highly 
he  prized,  and  how  eagerly  he  reciprocated,  sincere  affec- 
tion. —  WILLIAM  MINTO. 


SCOTT,    ON    BYRON    AND    BURNS. 

I  saw  him  for  the  last  time  in  (September)  1815, 
after  I  returned  from  France ;  he  dined  or  lunched  with 
me  at  Long's  in  Bond  Street.  I  never  saw  him  so  full 
of  gaiety  and  good  humor.  The  day  of  this  interview 
was  the  most  interesting  I  ever  spent.  Several  letters 
passed  between  us  —  one  perhaps  every  half  year. 
Like  the  old  heroes  in  Homer  we  exchanged  gifts  ;  I 
gave  Byron  a  beautiful  dagger  mounted  with  gold, 
which  had  been  the  property  of  the  redoubted  Elfi  Bey. 
But  I  was  to  play  the  part  of  Diomed  in  the  "  Iliad," 
for  Byron  sent  me,  some  time  after,  a  large  sepulchral 
vase  of  silver,  full  of  dead  men's  bones,  found  within 
the  land  walls  of  Athens.  He  was  often  melancholy, 
almost  gloomy.  When  I  observed  him  in  this  humor 
I  used  either  to  wait  till  it  went  off  of  its  own  accord, 
or  till  some  natural  and  easy  mode  occurred  of  leading 
him  into  conversation,  when  the  shadows  almost  always 
left  his  countenance,  like  the  mist  arising  from  a  land- 
scape. I  think  I  also  remarked  in  his  temper  starts  of 
suspicion,  when  he  seemed  to  pause  and  consider 
whether  there  had  not  been  a  secret  and  perhaps  offen^ 
sive  meaning  in  something  that  was  said  to  him.  In 
this  case  I  also  judged  it  best  to  let  his  mind,  like  a 
troubled  spring,  work  itself  clear,  which  it  did  in  a  min- 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON.      25  I 

ute  or  two.  A  downright  steadiness  of  manner  was 
the  way  to  his  good  opinion.  Will  Rose,  looking  by  ac- 
cident at  his  feet,  saw  him  scowling  furiously ;  but  on 
his  showing  no  consciousness,  his  lordship  resumed  his 
easy  manner.  What  I  liked  about  him,  besides  his 
boundless  genius,  was  his  generosity  of  spirit,  as  well 
as  of  purse,  and  his  utter  contempt  of  all  the  affecta- 
tions of  literature.  He  liked  Moore  and  me  because, 
with  all  our  other  differences,  we  were  both  good- 
natured  fellows,  not  caring  to  maintain  our  dignity, 
enjoying  the  mot-pour-rire .  He  wrote  from  impulse, 
never  from  effort,  and  therefore  I  have  always  reckoned 
Burns  and  Byron  the  most  genuine  poetic  geniuses 
of  my  time,  and  of  half  a  century  before  me.  —  SIR 
WALTER  SCOTT. 

BYRON  AND  THE  WORLD'S  TREATMENT  OF  HIM. 

He  came  into  the  world ;  and  the  world  treated  him 
as  his  mother  had  treated  him,  sometimes  with  fondness, 
sometimes  with  cruelty,  never  with  justice.  It  indulged 
him  without  discrimination  and  punished  him  without 
discrimination.  He  was  truly  a  spoiled  child ;  not 
merely  the  spoiled  child  of  his  parent,  but  the  spoiled 
child  of  nature,  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  the  spoiled 
child  of  fame,  the  spoiled  child  of  society.  His  first 
poems  were  received  with  a  contempt  which,  feeble  as 
they  were,  they  did  not  absolutely  deserve.  The  poem 
which  he  published  on  his  return  from  his  travels  was,  on 
the  other  hand,  extolled  far  above  its  merit.  At  twenty- 
four  he  found  himself  on  the  pinnacle  of  literary  fame, 
with  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  a  crowd  of  other 


252 


LITER  A  TURE. 


distinguished  writers  beneath  his  feet.  There  is  scarcely 
an  instance  in  history  of  so  sudden  a  rise  to  so  dizzy 
an  eminence.  Everything  that  could  stimulate  and 
everything  that  could  gratify  the  strongest  propensities 
of  our  nature,  the  gaze  of  a  hundred  drawing  rooms,  the 
acclamations  of  the  whole  nation,  the  applause  of  ap- 
plauded men,  the  love  of  lovely  women,  all  this  world 
and  all  the  glory  of  it,  were  at  once  offered  to  a  youth 


THE  VILLA  DIODATI. 

The  Residence  of  Lord  Byron.     From  a  Drawing  by  Purser. 

to  whom  nature  had  given  violent  passions,  and  whom 
education  had  never  taught  to  control  them.  He  lived 
as  many  men  live  who  have  no  similar  excuse  to  plead 
for  their  faults.  But  his  countrymen  and  countrywomen 
would  love  and  admire  him.  They  were  resolved  to  see 


S  TUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  B  YR  ON.       253 

in  his  excesses  only  the  flash  and  outbreak  of  that  same 
fiery  mind  which  glowed  in  his  poetry.  .  .  .  Everything, 
it  seemed,  was  to  be  forgiven  to  youth,  rank,  and  genius. 
Then  came  the  reaction.  Society,  capricious  in  its  indig- 
nation as  it  had  been  capricious  in  its  fondness,  flew  into 
a  rage  with  its  froward  and  petted  darling.  He  had 
been  worshipped  with  an  irrational  idolatry.  He  was 
persecuted  with  an  irrational  fury.  —  LORD  MACAULAY. 

BYRON  AND  SCOTT BYRON'S  FORCE  AND  IMPETUOSITY. 

Like  Scott,  Byron  is  often  defective  in  his  rhymes  and 
the  other  minutiae  of  his  art,  and  is  wanting  in  exquisite 
finish  in  general  and  absolute  perfection  and  felicity  of 
expression  in  occasional  passages.  But  the  positive  blots 
on  his  style  are  more  frequent  and  more  offensive  than 
those  of  Scott,  while  his  best  passages  are  finer.  He 
lacked  the  patience  and  self-discipline,  he  lacked  the 
single-minded  devotion  to  art,  without  thought  of  self, 
requisite  for  the  production  of  perfect  works  of  art. 
Like  Scott,  he  wrote  with  great  rapidity.  The  "  Bride 
of  Abydos  "  is  said  to  have  been  written  in  four  days; 
the  "Corsair"  in  ten  days;  the  third  canto  of  "Childe 
Harold  "  in  a  few  weeks  ;  the  fourth,  in  its  original  draft 
of  126  stanzas,  in  a  month.  He  wrote  to  relieve  him- 
self, or  impress  the  public,  not  to  produce  something 
perfectly  beautiful.  He  falls  beneath  Scott  in  the 
broader  technical  excellencies  of  structure,  unity,  devel- 
opment, etc.  His  poems  consist  of  passages  of  greater 
or  less  excellence,  strung  together  without  much  connec- 
tion or  plan.  Yet  there  is  a  force  and  variety  in  Byron's 
work  that  carries  us  along,  so  that  in  such  poems  as 


254 


LITER  A  TURE. 


"  Childe  Harold"  and  "  Don  Juan"  we  scarcely  note 
this  lack.  Here,  indeed,  we  come  upon  the  qualities 
that  give  Byron's  verse  its  permanent  place  in  literature. 
Two  critics  as  different  as  Swinburne  and  Matthew  Ar- 


FRANCISCAN  CONVENT,  ATHENS. 

The  Residence  of  Lord  Byron,  1811.    From  a  Drawing  by  C.  Stanfield,  A.R.  A. 


nold  agree  in  according  to  his  poetry  "  the  splendid  and 
imperishable  excellence  which  covers  all  his  offences  and 
outweighs  all  his  defects  :  the  excellence  of  sincerity  and 
strength."  —  PROFESSOR  W.  J.  ALEXANDER,  PH.D. 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON,      255 


BYRON  S    INDEPENDENCE  AND    INDIVIDUALITY  AS  A  POET. 

The  position  of  Byron  as  a  poet  is  a  curious  one.  He 
is  partly  of  the  past  and  partly  of  the  present.  Some- 
thing of  the  school  of  Pope  clings  to  him ;  yet  no  one  so 
completely  broke  away  from  old  measures  and  old  man- 
ners to  make  his  poetry  individual,  not  imitative.  At 
first  he  has  no  interest  whatever  in  the  human  questions 
which  were  so  strongly  felt  by  Wordsworth  and  Shelley. 
His  early  work  is  chiefly  narrative  poetry,  written  that 
he  might  talk  of  himself  and  not  of  mankind.  Nor  has 
he  any  philosophy  except  that  which  centres  round  the 
problem  of  his  own  being.  "  Cain,"  the  most  thought- 
ful of  his  productions,  is  in  reality  nothing  more  than 
the  representation  of  the  way  in  which  the  doctrines  of 
original  sin  and  final  reprobation  affected  his  own  soul. 
We  feel  naturally  great  interest  in  this  strong  personal- 
ity, put  before  us  with  such  obstinate  power,  but  it 
wearies  us  at  last.  Finally  it  wearied  himself.  As  he 
grew  in  power,  he  escaped  from  his  morbid  self,  and  ran 
into  the  opposite  extreme  in  "Don  Juan."  It  is  chiefly 
in  it  that  he  shows  the  influence  of  the  revolutionary 
spirit.  It  is  written  in  bold  revolt  against  all  the  con- 
ventionality of  social  morality  and  religion  and  politics. 
It  claimed  for  himself  and  for  others  absolute  freedom 
of  individual  act  and  thought  in  opposition  to  that  force 
of  society  which  tends  to  make  all  men  after  one  pat- 
tern. This  was  the  best  result  of  his  work,  though  the 
way  in  which  it  was  done  can  scarcely  be  approved.  As 
the  poet  of  nature,  he  belongs  also  to  the  old  and  the  new 
school.  Byron's  sympathy  with  Nature  is  a  sympathy 


256  LITERATURE. 

with  himself  reflected  in  her  moods.  But  he  also  es- 
caped from  this  position  of  the  later  eighteenth-century 
poets,  and  he  looks  on  Nature  as  she  is,  apart  from  him- 
self ;  and  this  escape  is  made,  as  in  the  case  of  his  poetry 
of  man,  in  his  later  poems.  Lastly,  it  is  his  colossal  power, 
and  the  ease  that  comes  from  it,  in  which  he  resembles 
Dryden,  as  well  as  his  amazing  productiveness,  which 
mark  him  specially.  But  it  is  always  more  power  of  the 
intellect  than  of  the  imagination.  —  STOPFORD  A.  BROOKE. 

BYRON'S  ADDICTION  TO  SELF-PORTRAITURE. 

His  descriptions,  great  as  was  their  intrinsic  merit, 
derived  their  principal  interest  from  the  feeling  which 
always  mingled  with  them.  He  was  himself  the  begin- 
ning, the  middle,  and  the  end  of  all  his  own  poetry, 
the  hero  of  every  tale,  the  chief  object  in  every  land- 
scape. Harold,  Lara,  Manfred,  and  a  crowd  of  other 
characters  were  universally  considered  merely  as  loose 
incognitos  of  Byron ;  and  there  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  he  meant  them  to  be  so  considered.  The 
wonders  of  the  outer  world,  the  Tagus,  with  the  mighty 
fleets  of  England  riding  on  its  bosom,  the  towers  of 
Cintra  overhanging  the  shaggy  forest  of  cork-trees  and 
willows,  the  glaring  marble  of  Pentelicus,  the  banks  of 
the  Rhine,  the  glaciers  of  Clarens,  the  sweet  lake  of 
Leman,  the  dell  of  Egeria,  with  its  summer  birds  and 
rustling  lizards,  the  shapeless  ruins  of  Rome  overgrown 
with  ivy  and  wall-flowers,  the  stars,  the  sea,  the  moun- 
tains, all  were  mere  accessories,  the  background  to  one 
dark  and  melancholy  figure.  —  LORD  MACAULAY. 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  B  YRON.      257 


BYRON  S    MORBIDNESS    OF    FEELING. 

Never  had  any  writer  so  vast  a  command  of  the  whole 
eloquence   of   scorn,   misanthropy,    and   despair.     That 


THE  MAID  OF  ATHENS. 

From  a  Sketch  made  from  Life  in  1823.     The  Poem  was  written  in  1810. 

Marah  was  never  dry.  No  art  could  sweeten,  no 
draughts  could  exhaust,  its  perennial  waters  of  bitter- 
ness. Never  was  there  such  variety  in  monotony  as 
that  of  Byron.  From  maniac  laughter  to  piercing 
lamentation,  there  was  not  a  single  note  of  human 
anguish  of  which  he  was  not  master.  Year  after  year, 
and  month  after  month,  he  continued  to  repeat  that  to 
be  wretched  is  the  destiny  of  all ;  that  to  be  eminently 
wretched  is  the  destiny  of  the  eminent ;  that  all  the 


258  LITERATURE. 

desires  by  which  we  are  cursed  lead  alike  to  misery,  — 
if  they  are  not  gratified,  to  the  misery  of  disappoint- 
ment ;  if  they  are  gratified,  to  the  misery  of  satiety. 
His  heroes  are  men  who  have  arrived  by  different  roads 
at  the  same  goal  of  despair,  who  are  sick  of  life,  who 
are  at  war  with  society,  who  are  supported  in  their 
anguish  only  by  an  unconquerable  pride  resembling  that 
of  Prometheus  on  the  rock,  or  of  Satan  in  the  burning 
marl,  who  can  master  their  agonies  by  the  force  of  their 
will,  and  who,  to  the  last,  defy  the  whole  power  of  earth 
and  heaven.  He  always  described  himself  as  a  man  of 
the  same  kind  with  his  favorite  creations,  as  a  man 
whose  heart  had  been  withered,  whose  capacity  for  hap- 
piness was  gone  and  could  not  be  restored,  but  whose 
invincible  spirit  dared  the  worst  that  could  befall  him 
here  or  hereafter.  —  LORD  MACAULAY. 


THE    DECLINE    IN    BYRON  S    REPUTATION. 

During  his  lifetime  Byron  enjoyed  a  renown  which 
has  rarely  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  living  writer.  At  the 
present  day  it  is  common  to  hear  people  asserting  that 
Byron  was  not  a  true  poet.  Some  causes  of  this  rev- 
olution are  patent.  In  the  first  place,  he  cannot  be 
called  a  moral  poet.  His  collected  works  are  not  of  a 
kind  to  be  recommended  for  family  reading ;  and  the 
poems  in  which  his  genius  shines  most  clearly  are  pre- 
cisely those  which  lie  open  to  the  charges  of  cynicism, 
unorthodoxy,  or  licentiousness.  Again,  he  suffers  from 
the  very  range  and  versatility  of  his  performance.  His 
masterpieces  are  long,  and  make  considerable  demands 
upon  the  reader's  patience.  Byron  has  suffered  even 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  BYRON.      259 

more  from  the  mixed  quality  of  his  work.  Not  only 
are  his  poems  voluminous,  but  they  are  exceedingly 
unequal.  —  J.  A.  SYMONDS. 

BYRON    COMPARED    WITH     OTHER     NINETEENTH-CENTURY 

POETS. 

The  sudden  burst  of  glory  which  followed  upon  the 
publication  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  and  the  indiscriminate 
enthusiasm  of  his  admirers,  injured  Byron  during  his 
lifetime  by  establishing  the  certainty  that  whatever  he 
wrote  would  be  read.  It  has  injured  him  still  more 
with  posterity  by  stirring  a  reaction  against  claims  in 
some  respects  so  obviously  ill-founded.  Instead  of  sub- 
jecting the  whole  mass  of  Byron's  poetry  to  a  careful 
criticism,  the  world  has  been  contented  lately  to  reckon 
it  among  the  nine  days'  wonders  of  a  previous  age. 
This  injustice  would,  however,  have  been  impossible, 
unless  a  current  of  taste  inimical  to  Byron  had  set  in 
soon  after  his  death.  Students  of  literature  in  England 
began  about  that  period  to  assimilate  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, Keats,  Shelley,  Landor  —  those  very  poets  whom 
Byron,  in  his  uncritical  arrogance,  had  despised  or  neg- 
lected. Their  ears  became  accustomed  to  versification 
more  exquisite  and  careful,  to  harmonies  deeper  and 
more  refined  if  less  resonant  and  brilliant.  They 
learned  to  demand  a  more  patient  and  studied  deline- 
ation of  natural  beauty,  passion  more  reserved,  artistic 
aims  at  once  more  sober  and  more  earnest,  and  emotions 
of  a  less  obtrusively  personal  type.  Tennyson  and 
Browning,  with  all  the  poet-artists  of  the  present  gener- 
ation, represent  as  sheer  a  departure  from  Byronian  pre- 


260 


LITER  A  TURE. 


cedent  as  it  is  possible  to  take  in  literature.  The  very 
greatness  of  Byron  has  unfitted  him  for  an  audience 
educated  in  this  different  school  of  poetry.  That  great- 
ness was  his  truth  to  fact,  conceived  as  action,  feeling, 
energy ;  not  as  the  material  for  picture-painting,  reflec- 


LORD  BYRON'S  TOMB. 

tion,  or  analysis.  Men  nursed  on  the  idyllic  or  the 
analytic  kinds  of  poetry  can  hardly  do  him  justice ;  not 
because  he  is  exactly  greater,  or  they  indisputably  less, 
but  because  he  makes  his  best  points  in  a  region  which 
is  alien  to  their  sympathy. — J.  A.  SYMONDS. 


BYRON    AND    PRESENT-DAY    STANDARDS    OF    TASTE. 

We  are  nowadays  accustomed  tor  an  art  which  appeals 
to  educated  sensibilities,  by  suggestions  and  reflections, 
by  careful  workmanship  and  attentive  study  of  form,  by 


STUDIES  AND  REMINISCENCES  OF  B  YRON.      26 1 

artistically  finished  epitomes  of  feeling,  by  picturesquely 
blended  reminiscences  of  realism,  culture,  and  poetical 
idealism.  Byron's  work  is  too  primitive,  too  like  the 
raw  material  of  poetry,  in  its  crudity  and  inequality,  to 
suit  our  Neo- Alexandrian  taste.  He  wounds  our  sym- 
pathies ;  he  violates  our  canons  of  correctness ;  he 
fails  to  satisfy  our  subtlest  sense  of  art.  He  showers 
upon  us  in  profusion  what  we  do  not  want,  and  with- 
holds the  things  for  which  we  have  been  trained  to 
crave.  His  personality  inspires  no  love,  like  that  which 
makes  the  devotees  of  Shelley  as  faithful  to  the  man  as 
they  are -loyal  to  the  poet.  His  intellect,  though  robust 
and  masculine,  is  not  of  the  kind  to  which  we  willingly 
submit.  As  a  man,  as  a  thinker,  as  an  artist,  he  is  out 
of  harmony  with  us.  Nevertheless,  nothing  can  be 
more  certain  than  Byron's  commanding  place  in  English 
literature.  He  is  the  only  British  poet  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  who  is  also  European ;  nor  will  the  lapse 
of  time  fail  to  make  his  greatness  clearer  to  his  fellow- 
countrymen,  when  a  just  critical  judgment  finally  domi- 
nates the  fluctuations  of  fashion  to  which  he  has  been 
subject. — J.  A.  SYMONDS. 

BYRON     MEASURED     BY     THE     STANDARDS     OF    UNIVERSAL 
LITERATURE. 

If  we  measure  Byron  from  the  standpoint  of  British 
literature,  where  of  absolute  perfection  in  verse  there  is 
perhaps  less  than  we  desire,  he  will  scarcely  bear  the 
test  of  niceness  to  which  our  present  rules  of  taste  ex- 
pose him.  But  if  we  try  him  by  the  standards  of  uni- 
versal literature,  where  of  finish  and  exactitude  in  ex- 


262  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

ecution  there  is  plenty,  we  shall  find  that  he  has  quali- 
ties of  strength  and  elasticity,  of  elemental  sweep  and 
energy,  which  condone  all  defects  in  technical  achieve- 
ment. Such  power,  sincerity  and  radiance,  such  direct- 
ness of  generous  enthusiasm  and  disengagement  from 
local  or  patriotic  prepossessions,  such  sympathy  with 
the  forces  of  humanity  in  movement  after  freedom, 
such  play  of  humor  and  passion,  as  Byron  pours  into 
the  common  stock,  are  no  slight  contributions.  Europe 
does  not  need  to  make  the  discount  upon  Byron's  claims 
to  greatness  that  are  made  by  his  own  country.  —  J.  A. 
SYMONDS. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON. 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE    PART. 

Zoii}  /xov,   <rds   dyaTrw.l 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart  ; 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

Zturj  ju.ou,  <rds 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^Egean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zci>T}  /xou,  eras  dyaTrai. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist  ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well  ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Zuir;  /xov,  od?  d 


Maid  of  Athens  !    I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul  : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?    No  ! 


,  <rds 


My  life,  I  love  thee."    (Pronounced,  Zo-ee  mou,  sas  ag-a-po.) 
263 


2  64  LITER  A  TURE. 


ON    PARTING. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  Hp  has  left 

Shall  never  part  from  mine, 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone  : 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write  —  to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak  : 
Oh  !  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak? 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free, 
Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 

And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 

MARCH,  1811 


FARE    THEE    WELL.1 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever, 
Still  forever,  fare  thee  well : 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee, 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again  ; 

1  Addressed  to  his  wife. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  265 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 

Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 
Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 

'T  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee  — 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  woe  : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not : 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay ; 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth, 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat ; 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 

Is  -  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  ; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 

When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 
Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father  ! " 

Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 

When  her  lip  to  thine  is  press'd, 
Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 

Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless'd ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  may'st  see, 
Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 


266  LITERATURE. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know ; 

All  my  hopes  where'er  thou  goest, 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee  —  by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 

But 't  is  done  —  all  words  are  idle  — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 

Fare  thee  well !  thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

MARCH  17,  1816. 

EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTA.1 

My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine ; 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I.  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine  : 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same  — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny,  — 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing  —  had  I  still  the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore,  — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

1  His  sister. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 
The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen, 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox ; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'd 
The  gift,  — a  fate,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay : 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away ; 
Something —  I  know  not  what  —  does  still  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;  —  not  in  vain, 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 
Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur,  — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to  bear), 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood  ;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks, 

Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 

Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 


267 


268  LITERATURE. 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks  ; 

And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 

Some  living  thing  to  love  —  but  none  like  thee. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation ;  —  to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date  ; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire : 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  !  —  but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show  ;  — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman's  is  fair :  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  forever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply  — 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister  —  till  I  look  again  on  thee. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  269 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one ; 
And  that  I  would  not ;  —  for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun. 
The  earliest  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me  — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be ; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept ; 
/had  not  suffered,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do? 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame  ; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make  —  a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue ; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  —  I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day ; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were ; 
My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fill'd  a  century, 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  passed  me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless,  —  for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 
And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  further.  —  Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around, 
And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 
We  were  and  are  —  I  am,  even  as  thou  art  — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign  ; 


270  LITERATURE. 

It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 
We  are  entwined :  —  let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 
The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last  ! 


WATERLOO.1 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?  —  No ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet.  — 
But  hark!  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rush'dinto  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

iFrom  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  III. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  2JI 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated :  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,   with  white  lips  —  "The  foe!  they  come!  they 
come ! " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes:  — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears  ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 


2J2  LITERATURE. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  — friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent ! 


VENICE.1 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ;  her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nation?,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 

1  From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  IV. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  273 

Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway  ; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto  ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord  ; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequaird  dower. 


I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  ;  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


274  LITERATURE. 


ROME.1 

Oh,  Rome  !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye  ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago  ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  Capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site  : 
Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  " here  was,  or  is,  "  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 

Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 

All  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err  : 

The  ocean  hath  its  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 

And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 

1  From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  IV. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  275 

But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections  ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "Eureka !  "  it  is  clear  — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

Alas  !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas  ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  ! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection  ;  all  beside  —  decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free ! 


THE    DYING    GLADIATOR.1 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand,  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low,  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  :  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not :  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, — 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother,  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday ;  — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  —  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged?  — Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 

1  From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  "  Canto  IV. 


2  7  6  LITER  A  TURE. 


THE    COLISEUM THE    PANTHEON.1 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars1  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bow'd  — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd  ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft  away. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head  ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot —  'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

'•  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ; 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 

And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  World."    From  our  own  land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 

In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 

Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 

iFrom  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  IV. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON. 

On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  ye  will, 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by  time  ; 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome  ! 
Shalt  thou  not  last?     Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon  !  —  pride  of  Rome  ! 

ADDRESS    TO    THE    OCEAN.1 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 

1  From  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Canto  IV. 


277 


278  LITER  A  TV  RE. 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals,  — 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wash'd  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  —  not  so  thou  ;  — 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm  — 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  —  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  279 

Made  them  a  terror  —  't  was  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


FIRST   LOVE.1 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear, 
At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep, 

The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 

By  distance  mellow'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 

From  leaf  to  leaf;  't  is  sweet  to  view  on  high 

The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 
Bay  deep-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 
Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters ;  sweet  the  hum 

Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth, 
Purple  and  gushing :  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps  ; 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth ; 
Sweet  is  revenge  —  especially  to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 
The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady, 

Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who  've  made  **  us  youth  "  wait  too  —  too  long  already, 

1  From  "  Don  Juan,"  Canto  I. 


280  LITERATURE. 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country  seat, 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady, 
That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 
Next  owner  for  their  double-damn'd  post-obits. 

'Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels, 
By  blood  or  ink ;  't  is  sweet  to  put  an  end 

To  strife  ;  't  is  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend  : 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels ; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world  ;  and  dear  the  schoolboy  spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all, 
Is  first  and  passionate  love  —  it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall ; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluck'd  —  all 's  known 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filch'd  for  us  from  heaven. 


DONNA   JULIA'S    LETTER.1 

"  They  tell  me  't  is  decided  ;  you  depart : 

'T  is  wise  —  't  is  well,  but  not  the  less  a  pain ; 

I  have  no  further  claim  on  your  young  heart, 
Mine  is  the  victim,  and  would  be  again : 

To  love  too  much  has  been  the  only  art 
I  used  ;  —  I  write  in  haste,  and  if  a  stain 

Be  on  this  sheet,  't  is  not  what  it  appears  ; 

My  eyeballs  burn  and  throb,  but  have  no  tears. 

"  I  loved,  I  love  you ;  for  this  love  have  lost 

State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esteem  ; 
And  yet  cannot  regret  what  it  hath  cost, 
So  dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream ; 

1  From  "  Don  Juan,"  Canto  I. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  281 

Yet,  if  I  name  my  guilt,  't  is  not  to  boast,  — 

None  can  deem  harshlier  of  me  than  I  deem : 
I  trace  this  scrawl  because  I  cannot  rest ;  — 
I  Ve  nothing  to  reproach,  or  to  request. 

Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 
'T  is  woman's  whole  existence.     Man  may  range 

The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart ; 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 

Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart, 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange : 

Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one,  — 

To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone. 

You  will  proceed  in  pleasure,  and  in  pride, 

Beloved  and  loving  many ;  all  is  o'er 
For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 

My  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart's  core  ; 
These  I  could  bear,  but  cannot  cast  aside 

The  passion  which  still  rages  as  before,  — 
And  so  farewell  —  forgive  me,  love  me  —  No ; 
That  word  is  idle  now  — but  let  it  go. 

My  breast  has  been  all  weakness,  is  so  yet ; 

But  still  I  think  I  can  collect  my  mind ; 
My  blood  still  rushes  where  my  spirit 's  set, 

As  roll  the  waves  before  the  settled  wind ; 
My  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget  — 

To  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind ; 
So  shakes  the  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole, 
As  vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix'd  soul. 

I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still, 
And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet ; 

And  yet  I  may  as  well  the  task  fulfil, 

My  misery  can  scarce  be  more  complete  : 

I  had  not  lived  till  now,  could  sorrow  kill ; 

Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the  blow  would  meet, 

And  I  must  even  survive  this  last  adieu, 

And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you  ! " 


>82  LITERATURE. 


HAIDEE  DISCOVERING   JUAN.1 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung 
Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave, 

From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrung, 
Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave : 

And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he  was  flung, 
Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliff-worn  cave, 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 

And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps,  in  vain. 

With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose, 
But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 

And  quivering  hand  ;  and  then  he  look'd  for  those 
Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea ; 

But  none  of  them  appear'd  to  share  his  woes, 
Save  one,  a  corpse,  from  out  the  famish'd  three, 

Who  died  two  days  before,  and  now  had  found 

An  unknown  barren  beach  for  burial  ground. 

And  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast, 
And  down  he  sunk ;  and  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 

Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass'd  : 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretched  hand 

Droop'd  dripping  on  the  oar  (their  jury-mast)  ; 
And,  like  a  wither'd  lily,  on  the  land 

His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay, 

As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  form'd  of  clay. 

How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 
He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim  ; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass'd  away 
He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life, 

For  Death,  though  vanquished,  still  retired  with  strife. 

His  eyes  he  open'd,  shut,  again  unclosed, 
For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness  ;  he  thought 

1  From  "  Don  Juan,"  Canto  II. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  283 

He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 

And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought, 
And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed  ; 

And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought, 
And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 
A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 

'T  was  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 

Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath  ; 
And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 

Recall'd  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death  ; 
And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 

Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 
Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
To  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs  ;  and  the  fair  arm 

Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung ; 
And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 

Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead ;  then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm ; 

And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 

A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom  —  and  hers,  too. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 

The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,  —  one 
Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 

And  more  robust  of  figure,  —  then  begun 
To  kindle  fire  ;  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  that  root'd  them,  which  the  sun 
Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 
She  was,  appear'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 

In  braids  behind  ;  and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  command, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 


284  LITER  A  TURE. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn ;  but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ;  for  when  to  the  view 

Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew : 

'T  is  as  the  snake  late  coiFd,  who  pours  his  length, 

And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure  dye 
Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun ; 

Short  upper  lip  —  sweet  lips  !  that  make  us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such  ;  for  she  was  one 

Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all's  done  — 

I  Ve  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE.1 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  the  r  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse : 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

1  From  "  Don  Juan,"  Canto  III. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  285 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations  ;  — all  were  his  ! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 

My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 

Though  link'd  among  a  fettered  race, 
To  feet  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 

Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 
For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah  !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  *•  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come !  " 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain  !  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 


286  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet ; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  ; 

He  served,  —  but  served  Polycrates,  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still  at  least  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

O  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks, — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  ; 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade,  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


READINGS  FROM  BYRON.  287 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 


STUDENTS'  NOTES  AND  QUERIES. 


QUERIES. 

1 .  What  famous  heroine  of  Byron's  is  referred  to  in  the  following 
description  ?  — 

"Then  comes  the   episode  of 'a  long  low  island  song  of 

ancient  days,'  the  character  of  the  girl  herself  being  like  a  thread 
of  pure  gold  running  through  the  fabric  of  its  surroundings,  motley 
in  every  page." 

2.  What  famous  poem  of  Byron's  is  the  subject  of  the  following 
comments?  — 

"  It  can  be  credited  with  a  text  only  in  the  sense  in  which  every 
large  experience,  of  its  own  accord,  conveys  its  lesson.  It  was  to 
the  author  a  picture  of  the  world  as  he  saw  it ;  and  it  is  to  us  a 
mirror  in  which  every  attribute  of  his  genius,  every  peculiarity  of 
his  nature,  is  reflected  without  distortion." 

3.  Who  are  supposed  to  have  been  the  originals  of  the  following 
characters  in  "Don  Juan":  (a)  "Miss  Millpond " ;    (£)  "Lady 
Adeline  "  ;  (0  "  Aurora  Raby  "  ;  (</)  "  Zuleika  "  ? 

4.  Two  ladies,  friends  of  Lord  Byron,  were  opposed  to  his  writ- 
ing "Don  Juan."    Once  when  he  said  that  "Don  Juan"  would 
live  longer  than  "  Childe  Harold,"  one  of  them  replied  :  "  Oh,  but 
I  would  rather  have  the  fame  of  '  Childe  Harold '  for  three  years 
than  an  immortality  of  'Don  Juan.1"    They  used   to  speak  of 
"Don  Juan"  as  "that  horrid,  wearisome  Don,"  and  endeavor  to 
persuade  him  to  stop  writing  it.     Who  were  these  two  ladies  ? 

5.  Who  was  it  that  once  asked  Byron  "  when  he  meant  to  give 
up  his  bad  habit  of  making  verses  "  ? 

6.  What  great  world -renowned  critic  and  poet  spoke  these  words 
of  Byron  shortly  after  his  death  ?  — 

"  The  English  may  think  of  Byron  as  they  please ;  but  this  is 
288 


BYRON— NOTES  AND    QUERIES.  289 

certain,  they  can  show  no  poet  who  is  to  be  compared  with  him. 
He  is  different  from  all  the  others,  and,  for  the  most  part,  greater." 


7.  In  what  poems  are  the  following  verses  or  stanzas  to  be  found? 

(a)  "  It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free  ; 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where  ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair." 

(b)  "  At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 

Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop  ;  I  see  them  come  ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! 

I  strove  to  cry,  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide? 
A  thousand  horse,  —  and  none  to  ride  ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils,  never  stretched  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on." 

(c)  **  The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 
The  rapture  of  the  strife  ; 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 
To  thee  the  breath  of  life ; 


2  90  LIT  ERA  TURE. 

The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seemed  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife,  — 
All  quelled  !  Dark  Spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  !  " 

(d)  **  Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  that  love  me, 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 
And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate." 

0)   "  Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink." 

(/)  "  I  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun, 
According  to  the  curse :  —  must  I  do  more? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat?     For  what  must  I  be  grateful? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust?     If  I  am  nothing  — 
For  nothing  shall  I  be  an  hypocrite, 
And  seem  well-pleas 'd  with  pain  ?     For  what  should  I 
Be  contrite  ?  " 

(g)  "  Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her  !  " 

(h)  "  Away  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance  ; 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove  ! 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 
And  the  rapture  which  dwells  in  the  first  kiss  of  love." 

(z)  "  At  once  I  '11  tell  thee  our  opinion 

Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion  : 
Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration, 
On  eyes  of  blue,  or  lips  carnation, 
Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 
Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 
Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove,  — 


BYRON— NOTES  AND    QUERIES.  291 

These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love. 
It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture, 
To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture  ; 
But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 
Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 
To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation  — 
Know,  in  a  word,  'tis  :  ANIMATION." 

(/)  ' '  A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  ev'ry  trade 

Save  censure —  critics  all  are  ready  made." 

(k}  "  And  shall  we  own  such  judgment?    No  —  as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December  —  ice  in  June  ; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff, 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that 's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics." 

(/)  "  It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  rounded 
Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill, 

Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth  it  bounded,          , 
Circling  all  nature,  hush'd  and  dim  and  still, 

With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half-surrounded 
On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  chill 

Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky, 

With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

"  And  thus  they  wander'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells, 

Gliding  along  the  smooth  and  harden'd  sand  ; 
And,  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 

Work'd  by  the  storms,  yet  work'd  as  it  were  plann'd, 
In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and  cells, 

They  turn'd  to  rest :  and,  each  clasp'd  by  an  arm, 

Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm." 

(m)  "  'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move  : 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love. 


LIT  ERA  TURE. 

"  My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone  ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone." 

(«)   "  If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth  —  why  live?  — 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here  :  — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

"  Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest." 

ANSWERS. 

i.  Haidee.  2.  "Don  Juan."  3.  (a)  Lady  Byron;  (£)  Lady 
Blessington  ;  (<:)  The  Countess  Guiccioli  (there  are  those,  however, 
who  think  that  "Aurora  Raby"  personates  Lady  Byron  as  Byron 
first  knew  her);  (d)  "Thyrza,"  but  who  Thyrza  was  is  quite  un- 
known. 4.  The  Countess  Guiccioli  and  his  sister  Mrs.  Leigh. 
5.  His  wife.  6.  Goethe.  7.  (a)  "  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon ";  (b) 
"  Mazeppa's  Ride  " ;  (c)  "Ode  to  Napoleon  ";  (d)  "To  Thomas 
Moore";  (»  the  same;  (/)  "Cain";  (^)  "To  Woman,"  in 
"  Hours  of  Idleness  "  ;  (/*)  "  The  first  Kiss  of  Love,"  in  the  same  ; 
(z)  "  To  Marion,"  in  the  same;  (/)  "English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers";  (K)  the  same;  (/)  Haidee  wandering  with  Juan,  in 
"Don  Juan";  (m)  Lines  composed  by  Lord  Byron  in  Greece  — 
being  the  last  he  ever  composed  —  "  MISSOLONGHI,  January  22, 
1824.  On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year"  ;  («)  the  con- 
cluding stanzas  of  the  same. 


STUDY  OUTLINE  FOR  CLUBS  AND  CIRCLES. 


1.  Read  the  "  Biographical  Study"  as  herein  contained. 

2.  If  further  biographical  details  are  needed  they  will  be  found 
in  two   excellent  books:    (i)  "The  Life  of  Lord  Byron"  by  the 
Hon.  Roden  Noel,  in  the  "  Great  Writers  "  series  ;  and  (2)  Nichol's 
**  Byron1'  in  the  "English  Men  of  Letters"  series.     A  very  good 
and  sympathetic  account  of  Byron  is  given  by  the  late  Professor 
Minto  in  the  article  on  "  Byron"  in  the  "  Encyclopedia  Britannica," 
which  everyone  should  read  who  can  possibly  get  access  to  it.     The 
article  on  "  Byron1'  by  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  "  Dictionary  of  Na- 
tional Biography  "  will  be  found  to  contain  almost  all  the  known 
important  facts  concerning  Byron's  life  and  work.     Of  course  the 
standard  biography  of  Byron  is  his  "  Life  and  Letters  "  by  Thomas 
Moore,  a  work  for  which  Moore  was  paid  by  the  publisher,  John 
Murray,  4  ooo  guineas   ($20,000) .     The  American  edition  is  pub- 
lished by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

3.  Reference  is  made  in  the  "Biographical  Study  "  to  an  article 
bearing  on  the  question  of  the  cause  of  the  separation  of  Lady 
Byron  from  Lord  Byron,  written  by  the  late  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe.     This  article,    entitled,  "The  True  Story  of  Lady  Byron's 
Life,"  was  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1869.     It 
is  very  painful  reading  to  all  lovers  of  Byron's  name  and  fame,  but 
it  is  a  too  important  contribution  to  the  controversy  that  has  arisen 
over  the  causes  of  the  separation  to  be  forgotten,  or  wholly  ignored. 

4.  For  a  study  of  Byron's  poetry,  the  first  thing  the  student 
should  do  is  to  read  the  selections  given  in  the  present  volume. 
These,  on  the  whole,  give  a  very  fair  idea  of  Byron's  poetical  power 
and  range,  apart  from  his  power  and  range  as  a  satiric  writer.     For 
club  work  it  is  difficult  beyond  such  selections  as  are  here  given  to 
make  recommendations.     Much  of  Byron's  best  work  is  too  long 
for  club  study ;  and  much  of  it  is  otherwise  unsuited,  at  least  for 
study  in  mixed  classes.     Perhaps  the  one  best  work  of  Byron's  for 

293 


294  LIT  ERA  T  URE. 

class  study  is  the  Fourth  Canto  of  "  Childe  Harold."  An  excellent 
edition  of  "Childe  Harold  "for  class  use  is  the  one  annotated  by 
Dr.  W.  J.Rolfe,  and  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin&Co. ;  another 
is  that  edited  by  H.  F.  Tozer,  and  published  by  the  Clarendon  Press. 

5.  Other  poems  that  are  very  representative  of  Byron  are  :  "  The 
Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  "The  Bride  of  Abydos,"  "  Mazeppa,"  and 
"  The  Giaour."     If  one  should  like  to  read  some  of  "  Don  Juan" 
the  first  four  cantos  of  that  long  poem  are  perhaps  as  good  as  any. 
They  certainly  contain  some  of  the  very  finest  verses  Byron  ever 
wrote.     But  they  are  to  be  read  privately,  and  only  by  those  whose 
minds  and  judgments  are  mature.      Critics  universally  agree  in  de- 
scribing Byron's   characterization  of   Haidee  as  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  in  literature.     From  the  seventh  to  the  tenth  canto 
the  poem  is  not  so  good  as  it  is  in  other  parts,  nor  are  the  fifth  and 
sixth  cantos  equal  to  the  general  level  of  the  opening  four  cantos 
and  the  closing  cantos. 

6.  No  real  lover  of  Byron  will  be  satisfied  with  anything  less 
than  a  complete  edition  of  Byron's  poems.     But  even  those  who 
like  complete  editions  like  also  a  well-made  selection.     Of  the  "  se- 
lections," perhaps  the  best  is  that  edited  by  Matthew  Arnold  and 
published  in  the  "  Golden  Treasury"  series  by  the  Macmillan  Com- 
pany.     This  edition  is  also  specially  valuable  because  of  its  intro- 
ductory essay. 

7.  For  critical  estimates  of  Byron    the  student  is  presented  in 
the  present  volume  with  a  fair  selection  of  some  of  the  best.     If 
further  critical  appreciation  is  needed  the  biographical  works  above 
quoted  all  contain  excellent  critical  chapters.     In  the  fourth  volume 
of  Ward's   "English   Poets"   is  an  excellent  critical  estimate  of 
Byron   by  John   Addington   Symonds,  in  which  Byron's  position 
among  the  world's  great  poets  is  carefully  considered.     Critical 
estimates  of  great  value  will  also  be  found  in  John  Morley's  "  Critical 
Essays,"  in  Swinburne's  "Essays  and  Studies"  (Scribners),  and 
in  Dowden's  "  Studies  in  Literature"  (Scribners). 

8.  Hattie  Tyng  Griswold's  sketch  of  Byron  in  "  Home  Life  of 
Great  Authors"  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.)  and  the  descriptions  of 
Byron's  homes,  etc.,  in  Dr.  T.  F.  Wolfe's  "  A  Literary  Pilgrimage" 
(J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.)  will  be  found  admirable  for  reading  aloud 
in  clubs  and  circles. 

9.  Every  one  should  try  to  glance  over  if  not  to  read  the  Coun- 
tess Guiccioli's  "Recollections  of  Lord  Byron "  (Harpers) .     It  is 


BYRON  STUDY  FOR  CLUBS  AND  CIRCLES.       295 

scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  it  was  the  Countess  Guiccioli  that 
saved  Byron  from  himself,  and  the  world  of  literature  owes  her  a 
great  debt,  unfortunate  as  her  career  in  some  respects  was. 

10.  Lastly,  Macaulay's  essay  on  "  Byron1'  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
things  Macaulay  ever  wrote,  and,  though  the  judgments  of  the  essay 
are  not  always  sound,  they  are  nearly  enough  so  to  be  generally 
acceptable.  Every  member  of  a  Home  Study  Circle  should  read 
this  admirable  essay. 


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